


Stuff Tippy Wrote - Check Please Edition (Volume I)

by tiptoe39



Series: Stuff Tippy Wrote (Check Please) [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 65,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6728314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since this fandom swallowed me like a frigging blue whale, I've been writing nonstop for it. I'll be steadily working to get all my Tumblr ficlets up here. The vast majority are Zimbits but I'm branching out a little bit as well.</p><p>Will post a few of these here and there until I'm all caught up, then most likely fall behind again.</p><p>Find everything at my <a href="http://tiptoe39.tumblr.com/tagged/stuff-tippy-wrote">Stuff Tippy Wrote</a> tag on tumblr :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**some night in providence**

Jack slips into bed after a long day, sweatpants and bare chest, making himself comfortable beneath the sheets. Eric, already halfway dozing, curls into him, finding that sweet spot between neck and shoulder where he fits, sure as a puzzle piece. They both sigh, Jack’s chest deflating beneath Eric’s shoulders as the air comes out of him in a whoosh. Jack’s arm tucks around Eric’s body, hand sliding between his shoulder blades, warm fingers on firm skin.

He means to just go to sleep. No time and no energy for anything else, another long day of practice ahead, and Eric no doubt exhausted from studying all evening long with one eye on the TV as Jack played. But the comfort is warming, and Eric’s face is tilted up into Jack’s neck, little puffs of breath hitting him there and sending tingles through his shoulders.

Without even looking at him, Jack can picture his face, soft light lashes fluttering on his cheeks, skin rosy, pink lips parted just so  – with a rush like spilling water in his heart, the urge to turn overwhelms him, and he tilts his face toward Eric’s, feeling soft exhalations buffet against his jaw and mouth now. He’s almost too close to really see Eric’s face – two eyes keep blurring into three in the dim light – but he does see those eyes open, and Eric’s lips turn upward as he murmurs, “Hi.”

“Hey.” Jack touches his jaw, and Eric nuzzles into his palm.

“Sorry,” Eric says. “Guess I dozed off after the game ended.”

“We won.” Jack can’t help another grin. The adrenaline’s mostly worn off, but he’s still proud.

“Mm.” Eric hums and nods. “I saw. Congratulations.” He cranes his neck and places a soft kiss on Jack’s lips, barely a brush, gentle as silk.

It’s not meant to start anything, he’s sure, but Jack’s lips tingle, and he tightens his grip on Eric’s jaw, just a little. Leaning in, he takes a longer drink from Eric’s lips, closing his eyes to feel the plush softness of them.

He gets to do this. He gets to kiss Eric Bittle whenever he wants. The knowledge sounds like a dim bell in his gut, and suddenly he’s shifting, easing closer so he can kiss Eric more thoroughly, more fully. The way he deserves to be kissed. Eric’s mouth moves under his, and Jack chases it, capturing the pout of his lips again and again. A dozen soft kisses that melt, at last, into one.

Eric makes a short, soft sound, something like a whimper, and it ignites a fire somewhere inside Jack. He licks Eric’s lips until they’re swollen and wet, slides his tongue between the part of those lips to find the tip of Eric’s tongue and tease at it. Eric opens up to him, but not heatedly – it’s still a lazy kiss, still sleepy and languid, even as it sends thrums of sensation down through Jack’s limbs and into his core.

One hand on Eric’s jaw, the other on the nape of his neck now, he kisses as though following the thread of a melody, with each breath and press of lip and flicker of tongue coming in its place. The kiss crescendos, swells to a full moment as their tongues curl together, then relaxes back with soft touches of lips and fades to a close.

A breath away, Eric smiles. “What was that for?”

“Do you need a reason?”

The smile flips to a pout. “Maybe I do.”

Jack thinks about it. “Because you’re sweet when you’re sleepy. Because I love you. Because I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know, pick one you like.”

Eric buries his head in Jack’s chest and gives a wail. “Jack.”

A soft laugh escapes Jack’s lips. He turns, pulls Eric into a close embrace, and presses one last kiss to his forehead. Warm, pressed together under the gentle touch of the sheets, they find sleep.


	2. a kiss for luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hils' prompt: a kiss for Jack for luck before a game.

**a kiss for luck**

 

“I have to go.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned.”

“You’re coming to the game?”

“My ticket’s right over there, where you left it for me.”

“Good. So, good, then.”

“Mr. Zimmermann, _sir.”_

“What?”

“You have to let me go before you can leave.”

Jack starts, and his hands twitch on Bitty’s hips, but he doesn’t lift them.

Bitty bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Jack. I’m not leaving until tonight. We’ll have time afterward.”

“Good.” Jack leans in to kiss Bitty’s jaw, and while that’s nice, it’s definitely counterproductive.

Bitty wriggles, and his laugh comes pouring forth. “Jack. You have a game, mister.”

“I have games every weekend.” Jack buries his face in Bitty’s neck. “I don’t have you every weekend.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake…” Bitty squirms more, but his hands are in Jack’s hair now, and they’re even more hopelessly tangled before Jack began this convoluted process of saying goodbye. “Look. I’ll give you one more kiss for good luck, all right? And then you have to go and kick some Los Angeles behind. As you do.”

“One more,” Jack echoes. He gives a little sigh. “All right, but it’d better be a good one.”

“And then you promise to let go?”

“And then I promise to let go.” Like he’s repeating an oath. His hands ease on Bitty’s hips. He even lifts one away entirely. “See.”

“Oh, that’s very impressive.” Bitty slides his hands down out of Jack’s hair and along the line of his back, then takes a grab at his ass, just because he can. “Let go of the other one, then I’ll give you your kiss, then you can go.”

“Rrr.” The noise Jack makes is more or less like that of an angry dinosaur. He raises his other hand.

“Don’t you growl at me. Boy, if I could tell the Jack Zimmermann I met two and a half years ago that he’d be putting off getting to the rink, for some _boy_ no less…”

“You’re not ‘some boy.’”

“And you’re not some player, you’re Jack Zimmermann, rising star, and you need to get to your games on time.” Bitty beams at him. “Right?”

“Right, now give me my damn kiss.” Ah, and _there_ is the scowl of the guy Bitty met two and a half years ago. He rises to his toes and catches Jack’s mouth with his.

Hands land back on hips, fingers slide into hair, and all of that progress toward untangling is completely undone. Bitty doesn’t care. Jack’s mouth is unbearably warm against his, soft swipes of tongue thrilling him. He could spend all day like this, just pressed body to body, feeling the soft thrum of Jack’s pulse against his skin. Game times and hockey and the whole NHL can all wait. Just for one more moment.

And then the moment’s over. Bitty backs up and puts his hands on his hips. “Okay, there’s your kiss. Off you go.”

Jack opens his mouth as though to speak. But a smile twists his lips away from whatever word he was going to form. He shakes his head. Then, grabbing his bag, he’s out the door.


	3. feeling like melting

_sometime in the middle of sophomore year._

Bitty has lost track of the number of layers he’s wearing. Long underwear, T-shirt, button-down plaid, heavy sweatshirt, parka… he _thinks_ that’s all, but there might be a few in there that he’s overlooked. Even though he’s got sweat at his collarbone where all that material comes together, he’s still shivering, and his fingers and toes still feel like ice.

What is the point of winter? Cold in the service of hockey is one thing, but this kind of bone-deep chill just seeps inside you and makes every moment a misery. Bitty is the first one to complain when the temperature at home spikes and everything’s a mosquito-filled shade of muggy, but at the very least you can jump in a pool and experience that one moment of blessed relief. Nothing stops the cold. Not layers, not huddling up as he is next to his bed, and certainly not the drunken revelry downstairs. As much as Shitty might pontificate about how alcohol increases blood flow and heart rate.

Bitty doesn’t really know why he’s not in the mood to freeze downstairs with everybody else. Normally he’d be right down there, if not in the middle of the chaos, at least off to the side watching through his fingers and trying to decide whether to laugh or cringe. But not today. Something about the cold has sapped even his desire to be social, and he’s not used to it, which makes him even more miserable. He’s just too cold and bummed out to move.

The toilet flushes down the hall, and the floorboards creak. Jack must have been in there. Bitty musters up the energy to look up, preparing to wave a frozen hand in greeting as Jack goes by on the way back to his room. Then Jack actually appears in front of him, and Bitty bursts out laughing.

Jack is wearing his comforter around his body like a lumpy toga. It’s bunched over his shoulders and wrapped around his middle. A corner of it drags behind him on the floor like the train of a deformed wedding dress. At the sound of Bitty’s laughter he turns and frowns, and his expression makes whole picture even more comical. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bitty says, but it’s clearly not nothing. He relents. “You look like a cannoli.”

Jack’s frown deepens. “Better than a blueberry sitting on the floor.” Bitty clutches his (electric blue) parka a little closer – it _is_ kind of round. “Why aren’t you downstairs?”

“I didn’t feel like it,” Bitty blusters, and, when Jack tilts his head: “What? I’m allowed to want to be alone once in a while.”

“Oh. In that case I’ll leave you be.” Jack turns to head into his room.

“No, it’s all right,” Bitty hears himself say. Being with Jack is different. “Come in.”

After a moment of hesitation, Jack drags his blanket-cum-toga into the room. He looks around briefly, then plants himself on the floor next to Bitty, leaning up against the bed.

“It’s cold, eh,” he says, in that scintillating Jack Zimmerman small-talk style.

“I thought you didn’t get cold.”

A huff of gentle amusement. “I get cold. Just not as cold as you.”

Bitty pouts. “Don’t start with me! Ransom and Holster spent a half hour earlier today chirping me about being a Southern boy. As though I wasn’t here last year to see the snow. And Shitty tried to do some experiment involving shoving ice cubes down my shirt.”

Jack gives a low chuckle. “No wonder you’re up here.”

Harrumphing, Bitty nods. He looks over at Jack’s comforter. The thing certainly looks warm, warmer at least than the hand-knitted blanket from Meemaw that Bitty’s been sleeping under for a year and a half now. Still, it’s hard to believe that any blanket is heavy or warm enough to keep out this kind of cold.

“So does that thing actually keep you warm?” he asks.

In answer, Jack lifts his arm and drapes a section of the comforter over Bitty’s shoulders. “See.”

Bitty gasps as the comforter falls over him. It’s soft and it’s warm, but it’s not the comforter’s warmth that shocks him. It’s Jack’s warmth, Jack’s scent, pressed into the fabric after untold hours hugging his body. The sensations, at once above and around him, envelop Bitty’s body like an embrace.

And without the blanket between them, Jack eases against him, arm touching his shoulder. It’s impossible not to lean into the contact, his head lolling against Jack’s shoulder lightly. Jack doesn’t seem to mind. He sits there stoically, face angled up, and accepts Bitty’s weight without so much as a murmur.

“You’re right,” Bitty says, a lazy smile creeping over his face. “This is warm.”

“Mm-hm.” There’s a hint of self-satisfaction in Jack’s voice, but also contentment.

“And there’s body heat…” The words creep out of Bitty’s mouth before he realizes it. He flushes. “I mean… you know what I mean.”

Jack doesn’t answer for a moment. “…Suppose I do,” he says, finally, and falls silent.

It could be seconds or minutes that pass by, sitting on that floor, tucked together. With Bitty’s head gently resting on Jack’s shoulder, Jack’s arm curling against Bitty’s, their legs neatly folded beneath the blanket. For the first time since he woke up this morning, Bitty realizes, he’s warm. His hands are still icy, his toes still frozen beneath the two pairs of socks, but in that bone-deep place where the cold has seeped in and taken hold, a thawing warmth is taking over. Bitty feels a little like he’s melting, but only in the best way.

He dares to turn his chin, to gaze upward at Jack’s face. It hurts a little to look at him, but the pain feels like warmth, too. In this moment, Jack is all his, and Bitty dares to daydream. Suppose they weren’t huddling just for warmth. Suppose it were Jack’s arm pressed around him, not the blanket. The dream doesn’t seem so far off in this moment, and for an instant Bitty ponders saying something. He takes a breath, feels the words forming in his chest. _Hey, Jack…_

No. He can’t. He’s long since learned that things like that don’t happen to guys like him. The best he can hope for is a moment like this, where the closeness and the silence come together to let him pretend. He closes his eyes and squeezes a corner of the blanket hard in one hand.

“Hey.” The voice sounds like it’s coming from far above. Bitty opens his eyes.

Jack’s face is angled down. The expression there, inscrutable. “Bitty,” he starts, his voice wobbly somehow.

“Look at this. Look. At. This. Shit.”

Like a pair of startled deer, they both straighten up and stare at the door. Shitty, to his credit, is actually wearing a full set of clothes, though there are holes in his socks that reveal far too much of his feet. He’s sporting his usual half-toasted flush. “This is afreakingfuckingdorable. I’m gonna cry,” he declares. “You know what this means, kids! Time for a CUDDLE PILE.”

Somewhere in the ensuing tangle of limbs and blanket and grabby, freezing fingers, Bitty manages to worm himself free. Shitty is attempting to warm his toes on Jack’s belly, and Ransom and Holster have followed the siren call of the cuddle pile to dive in and try to fit under Jack’s blanket. Jack shoots Bitty a glance, the roll of his eyes registering mostly annoyance. But at the tail end of it, there’s the hint of a smile.

Bitty smiles back. And there’s that melting feeling again.


	4. breathless

These are the moments that render Jack breathless.

Bitty padding across the floor on a sunny morning, dwarfed by the size of the shirt he’s stolen from Jack’s closet. Bare legs that go on a skinny mile. Innocent smile on his lips and devilish glint in his eyes.

The feel of his hip against Jack’s palm when Jack reaches out for him.

The kiss they share, Bitty standing above him and leaning down. Hands on Jack’s face. Lips sliding liquid and warm against his.

Bitty taking hold of Jack’s hand, easing it backward. His smile, beaming as Jack gasps when his fingers brush the slick warmth he finds.

The crazy moment of rushed motion, standing and tossing of boxers and pulling down and kissing hard.

Bitty easing down onto him, first inch by inch, then all in a rush. The moment of completion. Their twin sighs.

The first tentative, gentle rocks. Bitty’s teeth riding along his lower lip, mouth skirting the edge of a word he doesn’t say in public. His quick nod when Jack asks if he’s okay, the happy moan he gives when he leans against Jack and arches, like something inside of him is just right.

The heat of him, the pressure. The way Jack feels watching him. The fact that Jack can lean in and taste the barely visible sheen of sweat at Bitty’s collarbone. The way the too-big shirt lies lopsided and wrinkled, falling off the edge of one shoulder, bunching at the bottom so Bitty’s cock can drag free against Jack’s stomach and the heel of his hand.

The hint of wetness Jack feels there.

Bitty’s hands, hard on Jack’s arms as he seeks leverage. The way he starts to move in earnest, hips lifting, thighs tensing. The quiet, hard-edged grunts that escape his throat at each new exertion.

The pause, after he throws his head back and rides through a swell of sensation, where he looks at Jack with glittering eyes and murmurs, “I swear I’ll never get over how good you feel.”

Jack’s own voice, a low rumble in his throat. “Bits. Don’t… Don’t stop.”

The weight of Bitty in his hands, as he takes firm hold to help lift him up. The way Bitty’s ass meets his thighs on the way back down, the sinful bliss of sinking into him. The terrifying, thrilling realization of how close he is already, how much he depends on Bitty keeping up this exhausting, impossible rhythm.

Bitty’s back arched and his hands tight on Jack’s arms. The full-throated moans that fall from his lips, broken by staccato grunts of exertion. The sweat at his hairline, the frantic drag of his cock against Jack’s stomach, the feeling like the whole universe is just the two of them and the heat they’re generating, like they’re the core of a sun.

The feel of Jack’s own voice breaking. The feel of everything breaking. Pulling Bitty close as everything locks up. Holding him as it all washes away.

Taking hold of Bitty’s cock then, the few scant seconds it takes before Bitty’s coming in his hand, the musical sound of his final moan.

And the two of them, tangled into an embrace, quiet and pliant and surrounded by sunshine.

And yes, breathless.


	5. got me on my tip toes

_~sometime in year two~_

Jack can hear humming from the kitchen. He smiles as he comes downstairs, dressed for a run, T-shirt and sweatpants. Must be Bittle. Kid’s at it especially early this morning. Psyched for the game later, maybe, or just in one of his indomitable good moods. At least he isn’t going full blast in the shower again.

Even with the shower singing, though, Jack’s come to the conclusion that having Bittle in the Haus is a net positive. He brings something, a new flavor of sorts. Not that anything was missing, but even so. There’s a kind of charge in the air when he’s around, like he’s always got a thousand ideas. It’s exciting, even if it makes it a little harder to relax.

Jack sneaks carefully across the floorboards, hoping not to disturb him. He’ll sneak out the door before Bittle’s even noticed anyone’s gone by. Knowing him, he’s got his earbuds so deep in his head he can’t hear anything, anyway. One step past the downstairs bathroom, two steps to the kitchen doorway.

And Jack stops.

It’s a flash of skin that halts him at first. Bittle’s shirt is too tight, and it rides up as he reaches up to grab a mixing bowl from a high cabinet. Jack sees the small of his back bared, then his waist as he turns slightly.

Just skin, nothing he hasn’t seen before, but it feels like a illicit peek somehow, and Jack feels a flush rising in his cheeks. _Stop looking_ , he tells himself. _Go for your run_.

He’s just managing to tear himself away when Bittle cocks his hips hard and sings in a breathy gasp, “Why?”

God help him, but at that moment Jack is locked right back into staring. The angle of those hips. They’re _scandalous_. Jack’s not even sure how. They just are.

A moment later Bittle’s easing back, mixing bowl in hand, and finding his way to the table that sits at the center of the kitchen. As he goes, he sways, singing to himself (“…this, this, this”) and smiling like he’s got some kind of a secret, and _merde_ , Jack’s still there, still watching.

But the twitches of Bittle’s hips are hypnotizing, and Jack can’t feel his feet anymore. All the blood’s in his head, a dull throb of self-consciousness as he watches himself watch Bitty move and yells at himself to go running and still _doesn’t_.

“Got me on my tip toes,” Bittle sings, pulling spices and flour from various cabinets, arranging them on the table in a neat semicircle. He clicks the measuring spoons together like a castanet, and does that thing with his hips again. To one side they go, then the other, like a pendulum improbably stopping at the edges of its arc.

Jack needs to stop staring at Bittle’s hips. He forces his gaze upwards, following the long lines of Bittle’s arms as he reaches for an ingredient. Bittle’s fingers move in tiny increments to pour and measure and level off and pour again, and Jack squints, trying not to miss a single motion.

“Away we’ll go,” Bittle sings, and Jack’s gaze flies to his mouth, the upturned corners of his lips. The gentle flush in his cheeks. His features are so delicate, bright thin lines delineating brows and eyes and dimples. Abruptly, Jack pictures them in black and white, frozen in a photograph. The morning sun catching just so on his cheek. Time slows, and he watches dozens of moments go by that only a shutter could properly capture. Furtively, he looks up, actually considering running back upstairs to grab his camera.

Running. He’s supposed to be running.

But Bittle is gliding across the kitchen floor, pulling a wooden spoon from a drawer, and singing “bye, bye, bye.” He plants the spoon in his mixture and stirs, the muscles in his forearms taut as he cradles the bowl in one arm, mixes with the other. The sunlight glints across the web of tiny fine blond hairs on his arms. There’s a freckle near his wrist that Jack’s never noticed before. Jack lifts his fingers to touch the same spot on his own arm. Like he can touch Bittle indirectly that way.

Which is a strange thought. Not a helpful one. And it’s not helpful, now, to wonder how else he would touch Bittle, if he got the chance. If, in some dream, he could come in without fearing the consequences. If he could grip those swinging hips. Run a thumb up the flat line of Bittle’s stomach. Entangle their fingers. Cup his jaw, turn those lips toward his own.

“Hey,” Bittle says, but he’s just singing along to his music – something Jack doesn’t realize until after an answering “hey” has blurted out of his own mouth.

Bittle jumps and turns. His earbuds fall from his ears. Quickly, he grabs his phone and pauses his music; the tinny sound halts and leaves the kitchen quiet. A smile leaps to his face. “Good morning, Jack! I didn’t even hear you come downstairs.”

Jack squashes all those errant thoughts into a little box in the corner of his mind. They struggle mightily against being suppressed, but he sits on them. “I didn’t want to wake anyone. Just going for a run.”

“Good!” Bittle looks around, then stage-whispers, “I didn’t wake you up, did I? I thought I’d surprise everyone with game-day pancakes.”

“Nah.” Jack stands there, looking for something to say, but that box of thoughts in his mind is making a damn racket. He doesn’t trust himself not to say something about the way Bittle was dancing. Or the way he looks right now, pleasant and blinking and so goddamn enticing.

He steps back and takes a measured breath. “I’ll just go run now.”

“Have a good time! Come back hungry!” Bittle waves and puts in one of his earbuds again. He turns his attention back to mixing, singing a soft “whoa-oh-oh.” And luckily, he doesn’t see that Jack stands there another moment, staring, before he finds the strength to go.

_(song is Tip Toes by Jayme Dee, which I never heard before today but love. Thank you[@ericandjack](https://tmblr.co/mYbEg-n3xlJGxE4ohxYAyGQ) for the song and the concept and for being amazing in general.)_


	6. july 3, evening

“I’m curious,” Bitty says. They’re on the porch swing in the early cool night, listening to the hum of the cars going by and the pops of the citronella candle’s flame. The scent of the candle wafts by, sweet and cloying. Their hands are folded together on the bench between them.

“About what?” Jack says. He’s been quiet, staring contentedly at the line of trees at the edge of the property.

“Oh, nothing,” Bitty answers, reflexively. Then he shakes his head. “No, you know what? I’m just going to come out and ask. When did you know?”

“Know what?”

Bitty glances at him. Clueless boy. “You know. That you… that we. That you wanted to…” He flushes, face warm in the evening breeze. “About us.”

Jack regards him for a brief moment. The smile that lights his face is so slight, it almost isn’t there at all. “That’s a hard question to answer.”

“It is?” Bitty gets nervous. Maybe he’s pushing too hard, too soon. “Well, it’s okay. You don’t have to answer. I was just curious.”

“I mean,” Jack goes on, “in a way it wasn’t until… that same day.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, trying to process that. It’s not disappointing, exactly, but it’s not what he expected. Not when he’s been so gone on Jack for so long.

Jack’s smile broadens. “But in another way, it was a long time before that.”

Another “oh” escapes Bitty’s lips. This time, hope is dawning in his heart.

“Maybe…” Jack grins. “Maybe last summer, when I was home. I wanted a slice of pie and you weren’t right there with one and I was disappointed.”

“Jack.” Bitty looks at him reproachfully. “Wanting my pie’s not the same as wanting…” He blushes. “You know.”

“Or maybe during hazing,” Jack goes on. “You kept asking if I was cold. It was cute.”

Bitty’s not sure how much of a compliment that is. “I was worried. What if you got sick? You were the captain. We needed you–”

“Or when I was choosing where to sign?” He says it like a question. “When we were narrowing things down and I started to realize Providence was the place, I was relieved. That it wasn’t so far away. Not sure I knew exactly what I wanted to be close to, but I knew I wanted to be close.”

This one makes Bitty’s pulse race. “Jack.”

“Could have been during the kegster,” Jack says. His smile fades a little. “I mean, before… all of that happened. You know, when you dragged me out of my room.”

“And you actually went.” Bitty can’t help a grin. “You were in a good mood. We almost took a selfie.”

“Almost.” Jack’s gaze goes distant, and Bitty wonders what he’s remembering, what happened behind closed doors. He’s okay with not knowing, at least for now, but he can’t help but wonder. And hope that Jack won’t spend the rest of the night lost in memories.

But Jack looks at him again, eyes bright, and his mouth quirks. “You know,” he says, “it could have been when we were working on that project. That was fun, even if I still think I ruined the look of your pies. It was good to spend…” He stops. “What’s that look for?”

Because Bitty’s staring at him with wide eyes, mouth gone slack. His face is hot, and he must be bright red. “Um,” he says.

“What?” Jack leans just an inch closer, and Bitty’s flush deepens.

Lowering his eyes, he manages to get the words out. “That’s when _I_ knew.”

Jack’s silent. Bitty glances up at him. The smile’s gone again, and Jack’s looking at him the way Jack looked at him in his room, all serious and agitated, that day when everything changed.

“Um,” Bitty says. He’s all _um_ s and _oh_ s tonight. “But I thought you were straight. So, you know, it was just one of those things I had to deal with by myself. We were friends and that was fine with me, and…”

He trails off. Jack’s silence is unbroken, and Bitty starts to panic. What if that wasn’t okay, somehow? What if he’s messed things up? His heart races, and he watches Jack carefully, like any sudden movement might make him bolt.

Then Jack squeezes his hand. His thumb moves, slowly, over Bitty’s knuckles. There’s an ache in his voice when he speaks.

“Sorry I made you wait, Bits.”

The heat of Bitty’s flush crescendos into a wave of warmth that very nearly drowns him. The porch spins for a moment.

And then all that warmth settles into his gut, pleasant, like a glow. A smile spreads across his face. “No, it’s okay,” he says quietly. “You’re here now.”

He inches closer, lifting their joined hands onto his lap, daring to let their shoulders touch.  They fall into silence, watching the stars come out over the treeline. Somewhere in the darkness, a firecracker pops and whistles an early hello to the holiday.


	7. silly love songs

Morning and Jack’s in an empty bed. He reaches out for someone who isn’t there, then takes in a breath of scented air. That’s the smell of butter melting in a pan. Groggily, but smiling, he eases out of bed and pads across the floor bare-footed to the bathroom. Relieves himself, brushes his teeth, pulls on a T-shirt. And to the kitchen he goes.

The radio’s on, an oldies station, but Bitty doesn’t seem to mind as he hovers over the stove, watching the pan heat. He turns, cracks an egg into a bowl, measures out flour and sugar, smiling, hips swaying slightly to the music. It’s a good moment before he realizes he’s being watched.

“Oh! Good morning! I figured I would make pancakes,” he says, sunnily, beaming. He goes about his business, all fresh clean lines of pink skin, gentle humming sometimes with the radio, sometimes ignoring it. Jack watches, fingers itching.

Bitty’s like a butterfly, huge colorful wings batting in the air, a creature of absolute delight filling the kitchen with sunny warmth. It’s humbling to have him here. Of all the places Bitty could bring his endless energy and cheerful good will, he’s here in Jack’s kitchen, devoting all that life and drive to Jack, of all people. Jack’s gratitude and happiness wash over him. His blood buzzes with the desire to be closer.

He crosses, rounds the island in the middle of the kitchen, and catches Bitty by the waist with one hand. Bitty’s got a wooden spoon clutched in his fingers, and Jack plucks it away, lays it down on the counter.

“Jack, the batter,” Bitty protests, but he’s smiling.

Jack slides his palm against Bitty’s now-empty hand, interlacing their fingers, and tugs. Bitty goes stumbling forward, head bumping against Jack’s chest. “If I don’t stir it, it’s going to get lumpy,” he chides.

“Just for a minute,” Jack murmurs, and swings Bitty from side to side, an exaggerated arc of motion that makes Bitty cry out and then laugh. Jack whirls him around once, then twice, and Bitty clings to him, grinning, gazing up at Jack with rosy cheeks and eyes full of sunlight.

Jack slows his swaying, now leading Bitty in a slow arc across the kitchen floor. On the radio, Paul McCartney is singing about silly love songs. This may be the silliest one of all, Jack thinks as he leads Bitty step by step, tug by slow tug around the island. There’s nothing rational or measured about swaying back and forth in the kitchen in the morning like they’re waltzing across a ballroom. Nothing serious about Bitty laughing and warning him his pancakes won’t be fluffy, or Jack dryly suggesting that might not be the worst fate in the world.

But Bitty’s one hand is in his, the other clutching the back of Jack’s T-shirt. The scent of Bitty’s hair wafts into Jack’s nostrils as Jack kisses a spot above his temple. And Jack takes those things very seriously. At this moment, they’re his whole universe.

“I love you, I love you,” the radio sings over and over, and Jack mouths the words, lips moving against the shell of Bitty’s ear. And he thinks, _do you even know how much? How, every time I have you in my arms, I never want to let you go?_

A little sigh escapes Bitty’s lips, huffing against the skin between Jack’s collarbones. The warm breath gives Jack goosebumps.

“I love you, I love you,” croons Paul, and the butter in the pan is starting to smell scorched. But Bitty’s resting his head on Jack’s shoulder now, and he’s slid his hand up to catch on Jack’s arm. Silently, they sway to the music, isolated in this beautiful point of time that will never come again.

Jack swings Bitty around, dipping him, and as Bitty gives a little cry of surprise Jack leans down to catch the sound with his mouth. He kisses Bitty for a long moment. The sun feels warm on the back of his neck.

“I love you. I love you,” the music repeats, and fades out.

Jack straightens up and spins Bitty away. “Go rescue your butter,” he says with a laugh. Bitty takes one sniff and panics, rushing to the stove with a cry of dismay. Jack grabs the wooden spoon and gets to stirring the batter, only to be shoved out of the way a moment later (“I don’t trust you with my batter, Mr. Zimmermann”). Laughing, he backs off and retreats to the far counter to make the coffee.


	8. “Hey, maybe you guys can all meet the team after a game?”

**“Hey, maybe you guys can all meet the team after a game?”**

 

“That. Was. Fucking. Swawesome.”

Ransom is standing on the table in the middle of the room, fingers closed shakily around an uplifted can of beer, gesticulating frantically as he tells the story for a third time. “And then he actually grabs me by the fucking thigh and says ‘You have strong leg for defense. Go fast, stop those guys, yes?’ I just. Kill me now.”

“You’re leaving out the part where he said we were an awesome team, dude,” Holster says, frowning.

“We know,” Lardo says flatly, “we were all there.”

It’s late November, and the six of them are crowded close in Jack’s living room. Bitty rode up with Ransom, Holster and Lardo; Shitty took the train in from Boston to meet them. Jack looks over the group as they sit and drink, laughing and retelling the story of meeting the Falcs and exploring the locker room, reminding each other of each high point as though they all hadn’t been there just a few hours ago. The enthusiasm in the room is contagious, and everyone is excited and happy.

_These are my friends,_ Jack thinks, and the thought fills him with warmth. As great as things are shaping up to be with his new team, he played with these guys for _years,_ and it’s nice to feel a part of that again, to feel the unwavering trust and comradeship that is still taking time to develop with the Falcs. He wonders if the people around him now will ever know how grateful he is for that.

Well, one of them knows. Jack glances at Bitty, sitting next to him, laughing uproariously at Shitty’s dead-on impersonation of Tater. His cheeks are that gorgeous shade of pink-flush that always knocks the breath right out of Jack. Just Skyping all the time, it’s not as intense, but when Bitty’s in the room right next to him, the urge to touch him tingles under Jack’s skin. He’s just barely kept it in check all day. Now, it overwhelms him. His ears are ringing with it.

And these are his friends.

Carefully, subtly, he reaches over and takes Bitty’s hand.

It takes Bitty a moment to respond, and when he does, it’s careful, too – his arm tightening, a questioning glance, a little deeper flush. Jack squeezes his hand, a gentle request.

Just barely, Bitty smiles, and the tension goes out of his arm. He munches on the cookie in his other hand and returns his focus to the conversation.

Shitty notices first. He’s reaching for one of Bitty’s cookies on the center table when his eyes fall on Bitty and Jack’s joined hands. He snatches his arm back, stands up, and stares, jaw dropped and eyes bugging out.

“But then in the third period, that goal was…” Holster trails off. “Shits, what the hell. Sit down.”

But Shitty doesn’t. He continues to stand there with his face a silent spam of exclamation points, until Holster finally gets curious and follows his gaze.

He squints. Then he points. And joins Shitty in staring.

Ransom and Lardo follow, taking in Holster and Shitty’s faces, then following the line of Holster’s arm across the table. Bitty and Jack are faced with a tableau of shocked faces and complete silence.

“It can’t leave this room, guys,” Jack says.

Ransom makes a few incoherent sounds of shock. Lardo squints as though she’s trying to fire a heat ray from her eyes. Holster still points.

It’s Shitty who finds his voice first. “For how fucking LONG?”

“Since May,” Bitty says. His smile is demure, his cheeks still flushed. “Seriously, though, guys, y'all have to swear not to tell anyone. Even the frogs, okay? We’re trusting you.”

“Holy shit,” Holster says. “Holy SHIT.”

Lardo cackles. “That is afuckingDORABLE. I can’t stand it.”

Ransom is panicking. “How did we not see this? Holster, how did we not see this?”

Grinning, Shitty grabs his beer and lifts it to the sky. “This shit deserves a toast! To the–”

“–wait, so does that mean you guys– like, are you boning or–”

“–fucking best hockey player and–”

“–holding the fuck out on us, Zimmermann–”

“–knows that the way to a man’s heart is through his–”

“–gotta be kissing at least–”

“–you perv, leave them alone–”

“–shut the fuck up, Rans, I’m toasting–”

“Guys! Guys.” Jack uses his best Samwell Men’s Hockey Captain voice, and it still works. Everyone shuts up right quick.

“We’re dead serious about this,” he says. “You know what’d happen if this gets out.”

“We need y'all to swear,” Bitty says. “Cross your heart and swear.”

Shitty slaps his hand over his chest. “Fight Club-level secrecy, bro,” he says with a solemn nod. “You got it.”

The rest follow suit. Jack looks them over, finally letting himself smile. Maybe he’ll regret this decision, but he can’t imagine how. It feels good to trust someone. It feels good to have friends.

And it feels good, when everyone else has fallen asleep on the couch or in the guest room, to take Bitty’s hand and lead him down the hall to the bedroom for the night.


	9. are you ticklish?

Bitty doesn’t mean anything by it. They’re getting dressed for brunch at Chez Zimmermann, formal dress if you please, and half of Jack’s shirt is bunched up funny. So Bitty comes over and pulls it out, then tries to tuck it back in. As he fiddles, his fingers skim over a certain spot on Jack’s side.

Jack bursts out with a giggle, then hastily stifles it.

Bitty stops. Looks at him suspiciously. Then, without warning, stuffs his hand under Jack’s shirt on the other side, drawing his fingers over the mirroring spot.

“Pffft— hahaha!”

Drawing back, a wide smile painting his face, Bitty plants his hands on his hips. “Jack Zimmermann, are you _ticklish_?”

Jack does his best to look serious. “Of course not.”

“Well, _goodness_ me,” Bitty says, his eyes glinting wickedly. “ _Whatever_ will I do with this information.”

“Bittle–” Jack backs away a few steps.

“No, no, sorry, mister, the cat’s out of the bag now.” Bitty advances on him.

“I’m just– sensitive.” Jack retreats across the room, putting the bed between himself and Bitty. “You know that already.”

And Bitty does know it – it only ever takes a soft hand down his side to make Jack hiss and arch – but sensitive is one thing, ticklish is quite another. Bitty leaps up onto the bed, walking across it in deliberate steps, wiggling his fingers. “I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart,” he says, grinning hard. “But you brought this on yourself.”

Faced with an approaching tickle monster and not enough room to run, Jack makes a riskier play and reaches out to try to catch Bitty’s wrists. He misses – or, rather, Bitty dodges – and Jack ends up toppling forward, knocking Bitty down onto the bed.

Bitty won’t be kept down. He scrambles to his knees and makes a grab for Jack’s sides. Jack lunges forward and covers Bitty’s body with his own, finally catching one wrist as he goes and pinning it above Bitty’s head on the bed.

One wrist, but the other is still free. Bitty attacks, going after Jack’s side with a vengeance. Above him, Jack squirms, big body curling against Bitty’s as he convulses and tries desperately not to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Jack! I just can’t seem to help myself!” Bitty is laughing too, and their shirts are all wrinkled and they’re going to look like _hell_ for this brunch, but the look on Jack’s face right now may never be seen again in this lifetime.

With a little growl, Jack finally catches Bitty’s other hand. “I’m going to put you in the penalty box,” he says, but his face is red and there are tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, my, please do,” Bitty murmurs.

In a flash Jack’s eyes go dark, and he leans down and crushes Bitty’s mouth with his. The kiss sends warmth spiraling down through Bitty’s body. Ticklish spots forgotten, he moans, bending his knees and arching up against Jack’s body. Jack licks into his mouth, going hard against him. When he lets go of one of Bitty’s hands, Bitty doesn’t think to tickle him again. He just slides his fingers into Jack’s hair.

They’re both panting when Jack finally lifts his head, looking down at Bitty with those same dark eyes. “Stop driving me crazy, Bittle,” he scolds.

Bitty’s not sure he’s talking about the tickling.


	10. kiss me, quick!/don't let go

Bitty’s never felt this full, this intense or complete. Jack’s rocking inside him, hips flush against his ass, and every single gentle movement of his body is sending sparks flying through the air before Bitty’s eyes. He never imagined this, never conceived of the completeness he’d feel with Jack’s body all around him, sweat and muscle and hair and skin – everything, everywhere, all Jack, all-encompassing. Jack’s hand pumping a harsh rhythm on his dick. Jack’s lips pressed into his shoulder, dropping kisses there, letting out soft groans with every motion.

“Bits, you feel good,” Jack hisses, and the words send a fresh wave of fire through Bitty. Jack’s breath sounds against his ear, short and sharp and hitching. Bitty marvels. _He’s_ making Jack feel that way. _He’s_ making Jack breathe like that. He groans, a flood of power rolling through his veins along with the excitement, and pushes back, relishing the sensation of Jack so deep and so barely controlled inside him.

“Jack…” His voice is a thin thread.

“Oh, God, Bits.” Jack’s mouth latches onto his skin, sucks a bruise there.

The excitement welling up inside him surges, and Bitty gasps, feeling everything start to go rigid. He can’t take this, he’s not going to last another thirty seconds. “Jack,” he whispers desperately, “kiss me, quick, or I’m gonna scream.”

Soft breaths against his neck, his cheek, and Bitty cranes backward to meet Jack’s lips with his own. Jack’s mouth opens to his, and as their tongues touch, Jack rocks once more against him, purposeful. Everything goes hot and white in Bitty’s mind. He locks up, shouts into the kiss, sound muffled inside Jack’s mouth as he comes with a wrenching shudder that feels like it could take his whole body apart.

Behind him and around him, Jack thrusts into him desperately, holding Bitty fierce by the hip as he comes to his own climax. It swells, breaks over him, and he growls, then pants into Bitty’s mouth. Bitty slides a hand behind his neck, feels the sweat at his hairline, the thrum of his pulse. They remain like that, locked into each other, just breathing, feeling the waves of sensation recede like the tide washing away.

It takes real effort to pull apart. Bitty collapses against the bedsheets, all the tension going out of his body. He has to get up, get up and clean up, but his limbs feel like jelly. His body is tingling all over. Jack rubs a hand over his back and lets him lie there, getting up to clean himself off. It takes him returning and physically prying Bitty up off the bed to get him to take his turn in the bathroom.

Clean, sated, they lie together in the endless white-and-blue of Jack’s sheets, feeling the air conditioning exhale cool breath over their bodies. Bitty has tucked his head into Jack’s shoulder and wound his arm over Jack’s chest to stroke his side. “Jack,” he mumbles, and then “sweetie,” and “love you,” because he can.

Jack kisses the top of his head. “Thank you for that,” he says, as though he hasn’t just given Bitty the orgasm of a lifetime. Bitty giggles.

Frowning, Jack cranes his neck to peer at him. “I mean it,” he insists. “You didn’t have to– I know this is going fast.”

“Honey,” Bitty says, rolling to face him. “we’ve been dancing around this for two years. I wouldn’t call that fast.”

“I mean *this*,” Jack says, as though that makes things clearer.

“Mm-hm.”

“It’s been… four times in two days.”

“Five.”

“I don’t mean to keep… but you just look so…”

“Irresistible?” Bitty can’t help a shit-eating grin.

“Something like that.”

Settling down against him, yawning, Bitty pats him on the chest. “Jack. I want to be here. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more. So shush. Just don’t make me let go of you after, and we’re all right.”

Jack kisses his hair again, then relaxes onto the pillow. “No, he murmurs sleepily. "Don’t let go.”


	11. WAGs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bitty's interaction with the WAGs of the Falconers, assuming he and Jack are out.

Bitty’s seen them in the society pages. Athletes’ wives, girlfriends and plus-ones, always in gowns, always sparkling and radiant.  Stepping out at charity events, on red carpets. He’s never really envied them, but he’s never thought of himself as quite on their level, either. Even when he and Jack come out, and his face is the one plastered on the newspaper pages, he doesn’t put himself in their category. Nobody’s inviting him to a charity ball.  He doesn’t spend his time volunteering with inner-city youth or doing photoshoots. They’re a whole society unto themselves; he’s just Bitty.

So the phone call surprises him.

“Hi there, is this Eric? I hope you don’t mind, I got your number from Jack, well, from Brian who got it from Jack. This is Pam Wentworth.”

Bitty nearly drops the phone. Pam Wentworth, as in Brian Wentworth’s wife? Pam Wentworth who’s shown up on Rachel Ray? THAT Pam Wentworth?

“We’re having a brunch Sunday morning and I wondered if  you’d want to join us.” There’s no question who “us” is. Dizzy Real Housewives-esque visions dance in Bitty’s head.

He agrees, because you don’t not agree to the Falconers equivalent of brunch at the White House. And then he spends days obsessing over what to wear and what to bring. Bow tie? No bow tie? No bow tie. Pie? No, quiche. And Jack’s traveling all week, so Bitty’s alone in the apartment to shout his frustration and bake up a storm of stress pastry.

Why are they inviting him? He’s not part of their crowd. He’s only just two weeks ago taken his place in the public eye at Jack’s side. Is it some kind of obligation? What if he goes, and they spend the whole time looking at him sideways, with thinly veiled disgust? It’s not as though the response from the general public has been universally sunny. Especially once his vlog was discovered. (It’s nice to have the extra audience, but at least for now, he’s not looking at his Twitter mentions or comments.)

Regardless, he’s said yes, and he’s made his quiche. So come Sunday morning, despite a last-minute burst of anxiety, he shrugs on his coat, cradles the quiche like an infant, and walks the seven blocks to the address.

Visions of country club ladies dance in his head as he knocks on the door. But when someone who is definitely not Pam Wentworth opens it and lets him in, he has to wonder if he’s showed up at the wrong party.

The TV is on, and the ladies squished into the couch and sitting at the table are all in jeans and T-shirts. They’re sipping mimosas and laughing loudly, slumping in their chairs and swearing and all together acting like normal human beings. The only hint that they’re not is that to a one, they are all completely, effortlessly beautiful.

A shriek arises from the table as Bitty walks in, and in another moment he’s surrounded. Everyone’s greeting him, someone’s lifting the quiche out of his arms, someone else is dragging him by the wrist toward the table.

“Oh gosh, he made something, that is so cute!”  
“Of course he did, didn’t you see his YouTube?”  
“Come on over here, we want to hear all about you.”  
“How long have you and Jack been together?”  
“I can’t even, he’s too fucking adorable.”

Bitty’s head spins, and all the names being thrown at him go right out of his head. He nods and smiles and thank-yous as much as he can, but the activity is dizzying.

It takes the appearance of Pam Wentworth herself to calm the room. She makes he way through the crowd, looks at Bitty, looks at the foil-covered quiche pan on the table, and laughs. Her laugh is musical, like wind chimes.

“You brought a pie?” she says.

“Quiche,” Bitty stammers. He can’t take his eyes off her and her perfect face. “I would have made pie, but I thought it was too early in the day.”

“Well, you didn’t have to bring anything!” she says, laughing again. “We cater.”

“Oh, no, ma'am!” Bitty bursts out. “I couldn’t even think about coming empty-handed, not to meet y'all, and–”

“Oh, God, he’s adorable,” says someone behind him. Bitty flushes.

“Not ‘ma'am,’ please. Pam’s fine. It’s nice to meet you in person, Eric– should we call you Eric?”

“Um, that’s fine, or Bitty. All my friends call me Bitty.”

“Bitty,” echo several of the girls, followed by various permutations of “that’s so cute!”

Bitty’s a little scared he’s going to get petted like a dog in a minute. It’s a nicer welcome than he feared, sure, but he still feels kind of like a museum exhibit. He’s getting tired of being talked _about,_ especially now that he’s out of school and Jack’s on the road and he doesn’t have a lot of people around to talk _to._

He bristles and starts to back away. “Maybe I should just, um…”

Pam comes after him. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. We’re all just a little excited. You have to understand, we’re just so happy to meet you.”

A woman – dark hair and full lips – explains in a soft accent. “We saw you on the news conference. Jack seemed so happy. We wanted to get to know you.”

“We all thought you seemed so nice.”

“You did?” Bitty blinks.

“Sure.” Another woman, with soft eyes and delicate, curly hair, steps forward. “We’ve been wondering who Jack had in his life. He’s been so quiet about it, but it was obvious there was someone.”

“And now we know why he never told us. It’s too bad,” says another lady. This one Bitty recognizes as Marty’s wife, Clarissa Martin. “We would have been so glad to meet you.”

Bitty stares blankly. Of course, he thinks slowly. All these women have been with Jack in a million social situations that he hasn’t been invited to. While Bitty was finishing up school, these ladies were doing events with their husbands and boyfriends, events where confirmed bachelor Jack had to have been the center of attention. They all know him.

These are Jack’s _friends._

“I bet it was hard,” says one of the girls, her voice demure. “It’s been what, two years? That’s a long time to be quiet.”

Another says, “I can’t imagine how I’d handle Billy being away so much if I didn’t have the girls to talk to. I don’t know how you did it.” A murmur of assent goes up from the group.

Bitty looks around at them. There’s sympathy in those gazes, and genuine goodwill. He saw that look in his parents’ eyes when he came out to them, and in the eyes of his friends when he and Jack finally told their secret. He can barely stand it without getting misty-eyed.

“I, uh,” he starts, “I’m sorry I didn’t… I couldn’t… We didn’t mean to hide from y'all, but–” Damn it, the tears are coming, and he can’t find the words.

“We get it,” says the curly-haired one, laying a hand gently on Bitty’s shoulder.

“You’re here now,” says Pam. “Look, when the boys are on the road we have to be each other’s family. You’re a part of that too, now. We’re just sorry we couldn’t extend the invitation sooner.”

“Y'all…” Bitty wipes his eyes. “I am gonna bake you _so many pies.”_

The group laughs. Clarissa takes his hand and brings him forward, back toward the table. He goes with her, still a little hesitant, and when they all crowd around him again, it’s intimidating. But by the end of the brunch, Bitty is lecturing on the relative merits of cinnamon vs. nutmeg, and the quiche is long gone.


	12. shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on a page in Huddle 2.

Bitty doesn’t mean to start anything, really. But when he slides his soap-slick hand over Jack’s half-hard cock - just to wash it - it grows stiff beneath his fingers, and Jack lets out a soft, quavering moan. Bitty’s heart skips in his chest, and he slides his curled hand back up, then down again, fingertips teasing at the root. Jack grabs him by the shoulder, breath hitching, and gasps.

“Oh my gosh,” Bitty murmurs. Jack’s expression is killing him a little. He strokes upward, teases at the head of Jack’s cock with thumb and fingertips, mesmerized by the twitches of the muscles in Jack’s face.

Jack mutters something, too low to hear. Bitty strokes him again, oh-so-gently.

Now Jack meets his gaze, eyes full of fire. He says it louder this time. “More.”

Heart thundering, Bitty grasps Jack’s arm with his free hand. Finding his balance, he starts to stroke Jack in earnest, fingers curled and palm hot against the firmness of Jack’s erection. Jack’s starting to thrust now, hips surging forward, and Bitty watches in amazement as Jack’s cock pushes through the tunnel of his curled fist in stroke after hot stroke. Jack’s grunting with each push, low rough sounds that ring in Bitty’s ears.

There’s a hint of frustration in Jack’s face, and Bitty panics a minute. Is his grip too tight? Is he hurting him? His fingers loosen, but when he strokes again, Jack’s moan doesn’t come as loud, and a flicker of real consternation wrinkles his brow. “More,” he growls again, as though that makes everything clear.

“More?” Bitty echoes, worried. “You mean–”

Jack’s hand on Bitty’s shoulder squeezes, so tight that a muscle there gives.

“Tighter?” Bitty tries it, his hand stiffening. He strokes down Jack’s length again, twisting his wrist as he goes, fingertips skirting along the vein.

Jack locks up. “Yesss,” he hisses. His eyes close, and he tilts his head upward. Droplets from the shower’s spray catch on his face and glimmer there.

Heat suffusing his whole body, Bitty strokes again, twice, three times, his hand punishingly hard. Jack bucks up to meet him, and by the third stroke he’s crying out – “Ahh, Bits, oh my God–” and coming against Bitty’s hand and stomach. He stands there, hips still pumping weakly, chin tilted up for a few more moments of tension before it all drains away.

He enfolds Bitty in an embrace, pressing his lips to Bitty’s ear, his hairline. “Wow,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t – I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I wasn’t, either..?” Bitty’s heart is speeding out of control. He lets himself relax into the embrace, putting his arms around Jack’s waist and holding on. Jack’s body is radiating heat, and Bitty can feel the thump of his pulse in his chest.

After a minute, he finds himself smiling. “So Jack Zimmermann likes it rough. Good to know.”

Jack tenses a bit. “…What are you thinking about, Bittle?”

“Oh, nothing.” Bitty snickers.

Nothing _yet_ , anyway.


	13. seven years from coming out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teammate comes out to Jack and wants his advice about it.

The rookie’s name is Chris Simpson. He’s fresh-faced and enthusiastic, and thrilled to be on the Falconers. He corners Jack after a game once, a particularly hard loss, when Jack’s exhausted and wants to just go home and cuddle with Eric until the sting goes away. But Jack’s never been able to look a rookie in the eye and shrug him off. If the vets hadn’t been there for him when he was new, he wouldn’t be here now. So he listens, and finds himself uniquely unable to offer any advice at all.

Because he’s not like this kid. This kid is young, and optimistic, and he cares about the success of the team. He doesn’t want the Falcs to get a black eye for having two out players. Even though it was seven years ago, and there have been a handful of pro athletes that have come out since, it hasn’t exactly gotten easier. And Simpson has a point. No owner wants to own the Gay Team. As much as that fact sucks, it’s still a fact.

So Jack does the only thing he can think to do. He invites Simpson to the apartment to talk more. Because if nothing else, Eric will have something baked and something to say. He always has something to say.

Sure enough, when Sunday rolls around and Simpson knocks on the door, there’s a peach pie on the table and a sunny-faced Eric there to greet him. Eric has his priorities straight: he sits Simpson down at the table, serves him pie, and then leans forward onto his folded elbows to say, “So, sweetheart, what’s on your mind?”

How he does it, Jack doesn’t know. But that’s all he has to say, and everything comes pouring out of Simpson. College love story, years in the closet, wanting desperately to propose… but also the prejudice, the assumptions, the fear of having to choose between his own happiness and the team’s reputation.

Eric sits back in his chair and “hmmm"s several times. He shoots a look at Jack - _don’t you have something to say about this?_ Jack shrugs in return.

"That’s a tough one,” Eric says finally. “I can see where you’d be in a heck of a bind, honestly.  My Mama said to me once, we always have a choice in this world, but it’s usually not the choice we wish we had. Seems like this is one of those situations.”

“How did you guys do it?” Simpson asks.

Eric shoots a worried look at Jack. “Our situation… wasn’t quite as simple,” he says. “It wasn’t just a matter of deciding we were ready to come out one day.” It isn’t something Jack wants to go into, or hear about again, even seven years out. He cringes inwardly.

Luckily, Eric doesn’t go into a blow-by-blow of the machinations and betrayals that forced them in front of those cameras. He simply says, “But no matter what your situation is, in the end you have to figure out what’s the right thing for you and your boy. Here, have another piece of pie.”

Simpson obeys and eats up, hungrily, as though the food will help him process. Eric watches him for a few bites, then goes on.

“Speaking of your boy, how does he feel about this? Does he want to come out? Because he ought to be ready for a bit of a hullabaloo, and let me tell you, it isn’t all fun. Things have gotten better, but they’re not perfect.”

“We’ve talked about it,” Simpson mumbles. “He says he’ll do whatever’s right for me.”

“Hmm… not much of an answer.” Eric taps a finger against his chin. “You’ll have to really have a talk with him about it. Oh, I know. Why don’t you both come by next time? We can chat with both of you.”

Simpson goes starry-eyed. “Really? That’d be okay?”

“Oh, goodness, yes!” Eric laughs. “But just for the sake of argument – and don’t you go forgetting to talk to him about it, we’re just playing what-if here – let’s pretend he’s all for it. Your next question is, are you ready to roll the dice by talking to team management about your issue?” He tilts his head. “Jack, honey, is George still around? Because she might be a good place to start…”

Eric goes on, and Jack watches, fascinated and bursting with pride and affection. Eric is all energy and good-natured warmth, and those effusive Southernisms still pepper his speech, but time and experience have tempered him. Now, those seeds of leadership and maturity that were always present have blossomed, and Eric is the natural center of attention in any room, a genuine nurturer and leader. There’s a solidity and maturity to him that draw people in and win their admiration and respect within minutes. Simpson’s utterly enthralled by him. And Jack, too, though he’s had the pleasure of sharing each day with Eric for seven-plus years. It’s amazing to recall the impressionable, check-phobic freshman and compare him with the man sitting in this room today. Jack’s reminded, again, how lucky he is to have been able to watch Eric grow, to grow alongside him.

It makes him want to act, to contribute something. “Look,” he says, clearing his throat, “I don’t know if management’s going to have your back. But for what it’s worth, I will. You don’t have to face any of it alone. I’ll do whatever I can to make this go smoothly for you.”

Eric beams at him. Simpson turns with the same starry eyes. He’s starting to remind Jack of a certain excitable goalie from college. “Zimm– uh, Mr. Zimmerman –”

“Jack. Please.”

“Jack – sir – that’d be incredible.”

Jack deflects. “It’s the least I can do.”

The least he can do turns out to be going with Simpson for that first crucial meeting with management. And helping George coach him on media relations, from first press conferences to hostile interviews. And hosting him and boyfriend Andy for any number of advice sessions that turn, over time, into hourslong shit-shooting marathons lubricated by beer and pastry. And finding, inn a teammate and his significant other, a new pair of close friends.

Oh, and one other thing.

Jack squints as the flashbulbs go off. He smiles at Eric, who’s standing to the side, and clears his throat as he approaches the microphones.

“Seven years ago, the Providence Falconers stood behind me as I made an important announcement about who I was. They allowed me the freedom to be a player on this great team without having to hide. Today I’m happy and proud to extend that same support, and the support of the entire Falconers organization, to….”


	14. contract renegotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years hence, Shitty helps Jack renegotiate his contract. Prompt by stilesgivesmefeels.

“Five years. Five years of dedicated service to this organization. That’s what this man has given you. Two Stanley Cups and how many goals has it been now, Jack? Seventy-six? Seventy-seven?”

The obscenities are gone, but the delivery is vintage Shitty. So much so that Jack kind of wants to bury his head in his hands and disappear, before Shitty takes it upon himself to get up on the conference room table and continue this negotiation via interpretive dance.

“All I’m saying is,” Shitty goes on in that agitated way of his, “we should start this discussion with an aggressive understanding of the value of Jack Zimmermann to this organization.”

“Mr. Knight, we’re perfectly aware of Mr. Zimmermann’s…”

“But are you?” Shitty pounds a fist on the table. “Are you, _really_?  Do you know what value this man adds _as an individual_ to your club? Hockey playing aside, as notable as that is. Are you aware of the sheer increase in interest in the sport that has occurred during the past five years? Or, maybe I should say, in the past _four_?”

“Shit–” Jack stops himself just in time, and goes with “Mr. Knight” instead. “There’s no need to–”

“Don’t be shy about it now, Jack!” Shitty chooses Jack’s back as the next thing to get thumped. “Aside from the remarkable reputation for tolerance that your openness has allowed the Falconers to cultivate, let’s think in purely demographic terms here. The expansion of target audience! The contribution to the societal dialogue! The sheer progress of sports culture as a whole!”

The team representatives share nervous glances. “Uh,” one says, “perhaps we should start with terms. We’re prepared to offer Mr. Zimmermann an additional three-year commitment at a salary of–”

“Three years!?” Shitty looks like they’ve just offered him a dead rat. “You can’t keep this man down! Five years, with an option to free agency after two. It’s the respect he deserves!”

The representative plows ahead. “–at a salary of 4.5 million with attendant cost-of-living increases–”

“Objection!”

“We’re not in court, Shits,” Jack mumbles into his hand.

“Four point _fucking_ five?”

Oh, there it is. Jack was wondering how long it would take before the first F-bomb reared its ugly head.

“Maybe I haven’t been making myself _perfectly_ clear here. Maybe I’ve been _understating_ things. Do I need to go over the stats _again–”_

“Shits, calm down–”

“Maybe you’d like to propose terms of your own, Mr. Knight.”

The team lawyer is fingering his collar. Everyone looks distinctly uncomfortable. Jack looks from them to Shitty and back again, slowly realizing what’s just happened. Shitty has just rewritten the game. His outrages have been to a point. He’s disrupted the usual flow of these proceedings so much that he gets to start from scratch, setting the goalposts himself instead of chipping away at the team’s offer. It’s a brilliant way of doing things.

Or it’s just Shitty being Shitty.

“Five years, no trade. Option to free agency after two years.” There’s fire in Shitty’s eyes. “15 million.”

It’s a larger sum than Jack could even dream of proposing. He nearly swallows his tongue.

From the look of the lawyers, they’re having the same problem. They gulp and eye each other nervously. “Mr. Knight,” says the one who seems to have most of his shit together, “that is an outrage–”

“Is it, though? IS IT?” Shitty has puffed out his chest like a preening peacock. “I’d think of it more as a statement. A show of faith in this extraordinary athlete who has almost singlehandedly brought this club from the sidelines into the spotlight. I can just see the sports pages now. Falconers Ace Jack Zimmermann Garners Landmark $15M Deal. In a striking show of support for a player who’s made a name for himself on and off the ice…”

At this point, Jack can’t decide whether he wants to bear-hug Shits or sink down under the table and die. Maybe both. The lawyers are conferring, and Shitty takes the moment to lean over to Jack and murmur, “Sorry for the embarrassment, brah. Sometimes you gotta use shit to your own advantage.”

“I guess,” Jack says. He doesn’t know how he feels about his outness being a data point in the negotiations, but he supposes Shitty’s right. It’s been used against him plenty of times by rivals and bigots; it’s about time it works *for* him for a change.

Finally, the lawyers break from their huddle. Their leader leans over the table, palm flat on the surface, and catches Shitty’s gaze. “Five years,” he says, “5.5 million.”

“10 million,” Shitty counters without batting an eye.

“Six.”

“Eight. And no trade.”

The lawyer frowns. “Deal.”

Shitty extends his hand and grins. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

A handshake, an agreement to draw up papers, and Jack and Shitty emerge from the dim conference room and blink in the bright fluorescent light of the hallway.

“I hope you know you’re buying drinks tonight,” Shitty says.

“That wasn’t in our contract,” Jack deadpans.

Shitty glares and shoves him. “Go call your goddamn boyfriend.” But his cheeks are pink with pride, and his mustache twitches as his grin widens. Jack doesn’t blame him one bit. Kegster-throwing student or high-powered lawyer, Shitty Knight is a force to be reckoned with, and Jack’s damn glad to have him on his side.


	15. natural as waking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ransom/Holster bug bit me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight dubcon warning for things entered into while half-asleep or more.

Holster wakes up with Ransom spooning him, mouth slack against his neck. A big hand on his waist strokes idly in a gentle up-and-down motion. Warmth seeps into Holster’s skin and spreads through his stomach. It’s sleepy, comfortable, until Ransom mumbles something. Low sound and hot breath, and the hairs on the back of Holster’s neck stand up. He feels himself go hard. He’s unsure if Rans is awake, and afraid to ask.

As Holster panics, Ransom purses his lips. It feels deliberate – a hot, wet kiss against Holster’s neck. His nerves afire, Holster whispers “Rans,” and gets a “hm” in response that could be awake or asleep, then another kiss.

Holster’s trying not to enjoy this, trying to ignore the shudders in his spine and the heat pooling in his core. “Bro,” he manages, “what-”

Ransom’s “shh” vibrates into his neck. “It’s cool, it’s cool,” and then his hand on Holster’s waist dips forward, and holy _crap._ That is Ransom’s hand on the front of his boxers, and Ransom grinding into him just enough that Holster can feel he’s awake and _up._ Holster’s eyes flutter closed, and he just lets himself feel it for a moment. And that moment, that feeling, is enough to make him moan.

Rans’ kisses against his neck now are deliberate, wet and purposeful. They send full-body shudders through Holster. His cock twitches. Ransom’s hand, big and warm, slides over him, and Holster bucks into the touch, gasping. His boxers are a nuisance. He wants them gone.

“Nice,” Ransom mumbles against his neck, then there’s the wet drag of his tongue against Holster’s ear, and with a growl Holster turns. He catches Ransom’s mouth, sleep-sweet and hot, with his own. Rans gives a soft mewl and presses closer. Holster’s blood is all afire. Ransom’s hot to the touch, his hip almost unbearably warm as Holster settles his palm there, and even the air between them seems to rise in temperature from moment to moment.

They kiss – desperate kisses, open-mouthed, with Ransom’s tongue sweeping into Holster’s mouth – and Holster breathes raggedly. _Fuck_ , he thinks as Ransom nibbles on his bottom lip, _fuck_. It’s all he can think. Ransom’s hand (now smooth and big on his lower back) and his heat are breaking down his mind into raw shards of want. Hissing, he works his fingers under the waistband of Ransom’s boxers, jerks them down.

Ransom thrusts against Holster’s boxers.  His cock, hard and thick and naked, feels huge next to Holster’s own. But the cloth muffles the sensation, and Holster yanks down his own pair with a muffled curse.  Ransom huffs a laugh, then wraps them both up in one hot hand, and Holster keens.

Ransom kisses him again, then moves that maddening mouth back to Holster’s neck. His hand moves hot and fast between them. Holster lifts his own hand to help, and they find this perfect fulcrum of balance and motion, hips and palms and fingers. God, they are so fucking good together, even here, and the thought drags a sighed “yeah” from Holster’s lips.

“ _Hell_ , yeah,” Ransom echoes, then nips at his shoulder.

The bed creaks beneath them. Ransom’s breaths come hot and fast into his shoulder. Holster can feel his orgasm building, creeping from the base of his cock and his balls to envelop him. Gritting his teeth, he tries to hold it back. But when Ransom kisses him again, murmurs “Fuck, bro,” in a shaky tenor against his mouth, Holster loses it, coming with a startled shout.

At the feel of it, Ransom hisses and whispers, “fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” in a stuttering staccato, then arches and seizes up. Holster grabs his hip, holds them steady and together. Ransom breaks with a whimper, all the tension draining out of his body in a rush. Holster feels him relax, lifts his hand to Ransom’s back and strokes smoothly. If he were more awake, he’d start freaking out right now, about how good Ransom feels in his arms and how easy this all was, natural as waking up in the morning. Lucky thing he hasn’t had his coffee yet.

“‘Swawesome,” he says, because there’s really no other word for it.

Later, once they’re clean and back on separate beds, Holster can’t help leaning over and teasing him. “Yo, Rans.”

“Whu?”

“When you come, it sounds exactly the same as when you’re studying for an orgo exam.”

Ransom scowls. “Shut up, Holtzy.”

Holster grins. “'Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.’”

“Shut _UP_ , Holtz.” Ransom turns his back and pulls on a T-shirt. He deliberately doesn’t look at Holster again until after breakfast.

Holster finds himself grinning all day, anyway.


	16. there's someone in her room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 200dollargod prompted me with shitty/lardo and "who crawls through someone's window at 4 am to go for ice cream?"

There’s someone in her room.

There’s someone in her room and Lardo’s going to cut a bitch if she has to. Staying very still, she surveys the situation. Her window’s open. She can tell from the breeze. Whoever it is has climbed up the back of the Haus and slid in through the window. And whoever it is is getting closer.

She could scream. She could just let go with a holler and bring half the Haus running. Or she could just stab whoever it is in their fucking face with the scissors on her desk, right next to the bed.

The clock blinks a bleary red 3:53. Four o'clock in the fucking morning. Yeah, stabbing with scissors sounds like about the right. Does this fucking robber asshole know that she has to be up at six? She rolls over, closer to her desk, preparing to grab ‘n’ stab.

“Psst. Lards.”

What the _fuck._

“Lardo do NOT go for those scissors, it’s me.”

She reaches for them anyway, and is caught, a hand on her wrist.

She sits up. “What the fuck– Shitty?!?”

Because it’s that damned mustache in front of her, a finger pressed up against his lips. “Shhh. Shh. Let’s not wake everybody. What’s up?”

“What’s _up?_ It’s four in the fucking morning, Shits, what the hell are you even doing here?” she hisses.

“I decided to come down for a visit.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Sure, why not? Hey, you want to get some ice cream? I’m in the mood for some ice cream. In Harvard Square there’s this kick-ass place where–”

She glares at him as murderously as she can. “Who in the fuck decides to go on a road trip in the middle of the night and then crawls through someone’s window at 4 a.m. to go for ice cream?”

“Aw, I missed you too, Lards.” 

“I’m serious. Why don’t you just wake up the whole Haus while you’re at it?”

And Shitty’s persistent grin fades, just for an instant. “I wanted to see you _first.”_

If she had a stinging retort ready, Lardo’s forgotten it. She blinks at Shitty, her groggy 4 a.m. mind trying to wrap around his words. She can never tell, when Shitty says something like that, what it means. If it means anything. And she’s afraid to hope it might. 

Shitty watches her watching him, then, sighing, grabs her by the nape of the neck and pulls her into a hug. 

Lardo tries as hard as she can to stay tense and unresponsive, but it’s not even possible, not with Shitty _there_ and so damned warm around her, like the big stupid-smart piece-of-shit teddy bear that he is. She drops her head forward, lets herself just enjoy the embrace for a moment. Her hands come up and make little fistfuls of his shirt, clinging. “Dumbass,” she murmurs, trying to hold back her tears. “Where the hell are we going to go for ice cream in the middle of the night? This is not Boston.”

“We can just make a run to the murder Stop 'n’ Shop,” he says. “It’s good to see you.”

“You’re not even seeing me, it’s fricking dark and you still have your arms around me–” Oh, what the hell. She sighs. “Are we going back out through the window or sneaking through the Haus? We might want to try going the way you came. Chowder’s a light sleeper.”

Shitty draws back and beams at her in the dimness. “Is that a yes, then?”

“Dumbass,” she says again, and punches him, but what she means is, _it was always going to be yes._


	17. why the hell are you bleeding?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "why the hell are you bleeding?"

Bitty’s honestly forgotten all about it by the time he settles into bed with his tablet and loads up Skype. Jack’s had a game too, and even though Bitty checked out the score, he still wants to hear about how it went. At one point, as Jack’s describing some dirty play that went down in the second period (“they started it”), Bitty sniffles. And the sniffling, for whatever reason, gets his nosebleed going again.

Bitty dives for the box of tissues and stanches the bleeding as best he can. But it’s too late - the damage is done. Jack forgets what he was saying and instead scowls daggers at the screen. “Bits. Why the hell are you bleeding!?”

“Heh. I was going to get to that,” Bitty says, though he really wasn’t planning on mentioning it. “I got, um. I got hit pretty hard today. Slammed into the boards.”

“Shit!” Jack’s eyes are wild.

“I’m fine!” Bitty hastens to assure him. “They checked me out. Not even a concussion. I can go right back on the ice. Don’t worry.”

But stormclouds are gathering over Jack’s head. “Who was it?”

“To be honest, I don’t even remember. One of the d-men for Suffolk. Schiff, maybe?” Bitty takes another look at Jack’s scowling face and grins nervously. “Don’t you start on a murderous rampage, now. It’s hockey, it happens! Besides, Dex and Nursey nearly killed the guy afterwards. I’ve never seen Nursey that mad.”

Jack curls a fist against his covers and glowers.

“I thought you’d be proud of me,” Bitty says with a shrug. “I shook it right off. I didn’t faint or curl into a ball or anything.”

“I don’t like it.” Jack’s expression is still dark. “If you’re still bleeding…”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! I’ll ask them to take another look at me tomorrow, if that’ll make you feel better. It’s really just a nosebleed! Really, it can’t be that surprising.” Jack looks a little sheepish at that, but still says nothing. “And the play worked! I got the puck away in time.”

Jack grumbles something under his breath.

“Jaaaack.” Bitty takes firm hold of the screen, pushes his face up close to the camera. “If it hadn’t been for you I never would have been able to make that play. It’s because you coached me so much. And.. . if I’d’ve freaked out, I’d probably be hurt a lot worse. Thank you.”

This, finally, breaks the mask of concern and anger that’s settled over Jack’s face. He gives a soft laugh. “Don’t thank me. You pulled off the play, not me.”

“Yeah, but…” Bitty can’t help a little sigh. “Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn’t helped me out? I’d probably have been off the team by halfway through freshman year. Never moved into the Haus, never…” 

He trails off. It’s actually kind of scary to think what would have happened if Jack hadn’t been there for him in the beginning. They didn’t even like each other back then, but Jack still stepped up as captain to help him out. A first step that led to so much more. Bitty owes him a debt for that, more than a thousand kisses or a million pies can repay.

“Bittle.” Jack’s voice is sober. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You were a great player from the start. Even when I didn’t want to see it, I knew it. You’re the one who worked through all that. You pushed through your mental block and toughened up. I just helped a little.”

Bitty flushes. To hear those words from his boyfriend is one thing, but to hear them from his former captain? It moves him in a way he doesn’t really know how to deal with. He feels like that freshman again, timid and tentative. 

“Well, thank you,” he says, finally. “For helping me. I feel like I’ve never really said that to you, the way I should have.”

“Bits…” Jack starts, but then he shakes his head. “You’re welcome.”

Relaxing, Bitty shoots him a grin. "Anyway, it really paid off today. In a way, you really saved my ass.”

Jack’s eyes glint. “Oh, good. I kind of like that ass.”

“Well, of course you do!” Bitty puffs up like a peacock. “Now stop worrying about me and tell me more about what happened at the end of 2nd period. What did Marty do?”


	18. look to the stars

They watched the fireworks. And then, when the fireworks were over and the sky was still clouded over with multicolored smoke, they did something else for a while in the back of the truck. Now, the smoke has largely cleared, and Bitty and Jack lie shirtless and sweaty and happy on the blankets Bitty’s laid out beneath them, staring up at the wild sprawl of stars that blink above.

“There’s the Little Dipper,” Jack says, pointing. “And Draco, and Cassiopeia.”

Bitty frowns. “What are those other two?”

“Well, that one at the end of the handle’s the North Star, eh?” Jack says. “And then around it are about six constellations that just rotate around it all year long. That one that looks like the W, that’s Cassiopeia.”

Bitty’s poor heart is going to flutter its way into an early grave. “How do you know all this?”

Jack smiles, and drops a kiss on Bitty’s forehead. “My mother. She used to tell me all about the stars when I was young.”

“Your mother– wow.” Bitty’s heart is so full right now, full of fireworks and kisses and glorious moments in Jack’s arms, that he doesn’t know how he’s going to survive learning this new, amazing detail about the man he’s so hopelessly in love with. So Jack knows the stars. It’s too perfect to stand.

“Yeah, she told me Greek myths and things instead of fairy tales,” Jack says. “I learned a lot about heroes and gods. Not so much about Disney characters.”

And of course, of _course_ he did, of course Jack was raised on ancient legends. Jack, who was more myth than man for so long before Bitty got to know him for real, before Jack let him in. Bitty stares at him, knowing there’s unabashed adoration in his eyes, not caring. He feels that much closer to Jack, knowing this tiny detail about his childhood, than he did even before, when they were just about as close as two people can be.

Jack looks at him and laughs. “What? Is that so strange?”

“It’s not strange. It’s perfect.” Bitty grins. “No wonder you’re all into history.”

“It interests me,” Jack says. “Wondering what other places and times were like. Why they believed what they believed. How we’re different, and sometimes how we’re just the same.” He pauses, as though measuring his words, and then goes on. “We still look to the stars and see heroes. But now our stars are on television and on ball fields… and on the ice.”

“And you’re going to be one,” Bitty says before he can stop himself.

Jack frowns. “I know.”

“You’re going to be great, Jack,” Bitty insists, running a hand down Jack’s chest, a comforting motion. “You’re going to be a hero to so many people.”

“I hope I’m good enough,” Jack says.

“You are! You are. Gosh, Jack, just think about what you’ve done. We got us to the playoffs two years in a row! And everyone looks up to you. Me and Ransom and Holster and the frogs and everyone. Everyone thinks you’re great.” Bitty winks. “We can’t all be wrong, you know.”

Jack gives a little sigh. “I guess so. I just worry.”

“Well, of course you do!” Bitty leans up and kisses his cheek. “Of course you worry, honey. But I promise you, you are going to be amazing. You always have been.”

Jack squeezes him. “You always make me feel better, Bits.”

“Well, that’s only because I’m so amazing, too.” Bitty tilts his head, grinning.

Even in the dimness, there’s a light in Jack’s eyes. Bitty sees it, and the grin slides off his face, his mouth going slack as he stares back. His heart shivers in his chest. Slowly, inch by half-inch, Jack cranes his neck, closing the distance between their lips. He catches Bitty’s mouth under his, a kiss that’s all warmth, all love. Bitty sighs into it, tangles his fingers in the soft patch of Jack’s chest hair, sighing. Happiness wells up inside him like a balloon, buoyant and light and free.

Jack releases his lips, but smiles against them. “You _are_ amazing,” he says, the rumble of his voice seeping into Bitty’s skin.

“Well.” Bitty’s blushing, but he pushes past it. “That makes two of us, then. Now tell me more about the stars, Mr. Zimmermann.”

He settles back against Jack’s chest again. Jack lifts one arm, points at the heavens. “Now, you see that diamond of stars? Right above us? That’s the body of Hercules…”


	19. bad time to say i love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the prompt was: Nurseydex, lack of a filter, and the most awkward moments to tell someone you love them.

Nursey has a fucking filthy mouth.

They’ve been doing this what, like, two months now? Feels like longer. Maybe just because it’s a natural outgrowth of what they were doing for two years before. They’re shouting and swearing at each other and clashing, same as always, only now it’s with no clothes on.

And at least when Dex is taking Nursey’s cock, he gets a rise out of the guy. Seems even Nursey can’t chill when he’s got Dex on top of him, riding hard. “God damn,” he breathes, his voice wrecked and husky. “God damn, Dex, you fucking take it so good.”

“You’re goddamn fucking right I do.” Dex’s got a head of steam, bouncing on top of Nursey like he could break him. Hell, he’s _trying_ to. Even here, he’s competing, trying to get a leg up on this preppy-ass motherfucker. Someday he’s gonna fuck himself on Nursey so hard it’ll knock him out. And then, maybe, this ridiculous urge to be close to him will go away.

Dex feels it like an itch sometimes, like insects are crawling beneath his skin. It drives him crazy. He doesn’t want to always turn his head when Nursey walks into the room. He doesn’t want to be tuned to the particular cadence of Nursey’s voice, so that his body buzzes when Nursey talks, or to suffer the pounding of his heart when Nursey cups his jaw and kisses him.

At least when they’re in bed Nursey seems half as crazed as he’s making Dex. He lets out a low moan. “God, I fucking love doing this to you,” he murmurs, panting. “Fucking love watching you like this.”

“You’d better be so fucking glad I love you, you little fucker,” Dex spits back.

Nursey’s hips stutter to a halt, and he stares.

And then Dex realizes what he just said.

He meant to say “you’d better be glad I _let_ you,” that’s what went through his head, how the hell did “I love you” come out? Shit, shit, shit.  And now Nursey’s eyes have gone all soft and he’s smiling that fucking Buddha smile of his.

Dex scowls as hard as he can. “Don’t.”

“Baby,” Nursey starts, running a hand down Dex’s thigh.

“Don’t. I mean it. Don’t fucking say it.”

“You said it first,” Nursey points out.

“You were hearing things. Shut up and keep fucking me.”

Nursey’s smile goes a little lopsided for a minute. Then his hips surge up, and Dex hisses out a “fuck” and throws his head back because god _damn,_ Nursey feels good.

If there’s a time to be thankful for Nursey’s chill, this is it. Because he seems to drop it. And he drops it for a good week thereafter. Dex is pretty sure he catches Nursey giving him these weird, curious looks, but he doesn’t _say_ anything, and that’s what’s important, really. Because as long as Nursey doesn’t say anything, things can keep on as they’ve been.

Come Saturday night, after a kegster, they stumble back to Nursey’s way-too-posh brownstone and end up in bed. And before long they’re really into it, Dex riding Nursey hard and grunting and moaning up a storm, and Nursey’s whispering this neverending stream of mixed dirty talk and endearments. “God, baby, you’re so good… feel so great around my cock, fucking love you like this, just fucking love you, yeah… love you, baby…”

and that’s twice he says it, twice too many, and Dex seizes up and comes untouched with a series of strangled gasps.

The  next thing he knows, he’s lying in Nursey’s embrace, strong arms warm on his back, as Nursey layers soft words and kisses against his ear. His ire rises. “Damn it,” he mutters, and gets nothing but a soft, warm laugh from Nursey.

“Babe,” Nursey murmurs, “If I’d known that’s how you’d react, I would have said it weeks ago.”

Dex scowls and rises up onto his hands and knees, looking daggers at Nursey. “You little fucker,” he says. “That’s _exactly_ why I told you not to say it.”

He really wishes he didn’t love the smile he gets in return.


	20. you're safe now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "shh, you're safe now."

Jack’s shout is almost a scream - ragged-edged, prolonged, uncontrolled. Bitty jerks awake. Jack’s sitting up in bed, his head in his hands. He’s sweating, breathing heavily. Bitty eases up to a sitting position beside him.

“Baby,” Bitty says. His voice rings in the silent room. “You okay?”

It’s like Jack’s been somewhere else, and slowly he returns. His head lifts, his eyes focus, and he looks at Bitty as though just realizing he’s there. “Yeah,” he manages, his voice shaky. “A nightmare.”

“Oh.” Bitty lifts a hand and rubs soothing circles into Jack’s back. Jack’s T-shirt is damp with sweat. “It was just a dream, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” His voice still trembles. He’s fighting to control his breath. As Bitty watches, a chill wracks Jack’s body. Bitty’s seen him shudder like that before. This dream must have been something.

He leans in, drops a kiss onto Jack’s shoulder. “Shh,” he says, “it was a dream. You’re safe now.”

Jack lets out a breath. “It wasn’t me,” he says. “It was you.”

“Hm?”

“It was that game,” Jack says. “The one junior year. When you– I saw you get hit. I saw you hit the ice, I saw your helmet come off. But in the dream, you didn’t–” Another shudder wracks him.

A swell of emotion sends Bitty’s heart pitching from side to side. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, no, Jack.”

“I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything.” Jack hunches forward, averting his eyes.

Bitty takes Jack’s hand in his own, pulls it over and lays it on his thigh. “Baby,” he murmurs. “That was two years ago. I’m here now. I’m okay. We’re both okay.”

“I know.” Jack tilts his head, meets Bitty’s gaze again. “Thank God.” He squeezes at Bitty’s thigh as though testing to make sure he’s real. “Thank God,” he says one more time, a soft smile coming to his lips.

“Come here.” Bitty lays them both down, tucks Jack’s head against his shoulder. He can feel Jack slowly relaxing, uncoiling inside.

“Thank you,” Jack says, finally.

Bitty pets his arm. “Go back to sleep, Jack. Dream about the future this time.”

“Our future,” Jack murmurs, and Bitty can feel that gentle smile against his neck.

“Yes.” He kisses the top of Jack’s head. “Our future.”


	21. beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: zimbits and body worship. NSFW.  
> I thought about giving this an ending but... nah.

Bitty has never hated the way he looks, but he’s never loved it before, either. He knows he’s not built the way most other guys are. He doesn’t have the height or the muscle tone, and especially among his teammates, he’s pretty aware that if one of them sticks out like a sore thumb, it’s him.

But.

But oh,  God, in this moment, he loves how he looks.

Bitty’s just slipped out of his boxers, and now he lies naked on the bed, dwarfed and shadowed by Jack standing above him. He curls up, tucking his knees to the side so he doesn’t feel quite so – so exposed. Because Jack is looking at him.

Looking down at him, huge blue eyes hungry, and soft breaths coming fast from his mouth. “Bitty,” he murmurs. “God, Bits. You–”

Jack - Jack’s gaze right now. Bitty’s never had anyone look at him like this. He doesn’t know what to do or say. He just stares back, up at Jack, knowing his own eyes must be bigger than the moon. Because Jack’s are. Twin blue moons, full and dark.

“Bits.” Haltingly. “ I want —”

Bitty’s voice comes out small and timid. “What? What do you want?”

“Can I-” The words zing like fire into Bitty’s nerves. “If it’s okay – I want to touch you.”

Bitty’s cheeks are flaming hot. “Oh my gosh, Jack, _yes_ ,” he half-whispers.

Jack reaches out, tentatively, like he’s afraid Bitty’s skin will be white-hot. He presses his fingertips, then his palms to Bitty’s shins. Fingers curling around the columns of his legs, Jack inches forward, easing onto his knees at the foot of the bed. His eyes rake up and down Bitty’s body – legs to hips to chest to face and back again. Bitty bites back a moan. Jack’s gaze is undoing him, and he’s painfully hard, body singing in anticipation.

Jack lowers his head and drops a fluttering kiss on Bitty’s ankle.

Bitty sucks in a lungful of air. He didn’t expect that - that soft wet touch - and he doesn’t know what to do with it. His heart is beating like a hummingbird, frenetic and uncontrolled. “Jack,” he half-sighs, wanting to reach down the bed and pass a hand over Jack’s hair, encourage him. But Jack’s too far down his body, and Bitty’s too keyed up to move. He stays still and watches – just watches – as Jack runs strong hands up and down his calves. When Jack parts his lips and licks from ankle to mid-calf, Bitty shivers like he’s been caught in a rainstorm.

Jack inches up, crawling over him. One hand rests on Bitty’s thigh, firm, anchoring him. He kisses at the backs of Bitty’s knees, one and then the other. Bitty gasps and twitches. The backs of his knees, of all places – but it feels like a volcano going off somewhere inside him. His imagination lights up. All at once there aren’t names for all the places he wants to feel Jack’s mouth and tongue. He whimpers, clutching at the bedclothes, trying to regulate his breathing.

“Bits.” Murmured against his knee, against his thigh. “You’re– You’re so–”

And then nothing. Then just Jack’s hand on his thigh. Bitty looks up to see him staring, his eyes on Bitty’s face. He looks lost. Bitty wants to reel him in, to bring him home.

“What?” he says. “Jack, what am I?”

Jack’s teeth graze over his bottom lip. He crawls forward, eases over Bitty until they’re face to face. Bitty’s heart skips a beat, then thuds in his chest as though it’s made of lead. He stares into blue eyes that look like they’re seeing the universe.

He parts his lips to say Jack’s name. Jack closes the gap between them before he can. A soft kiss, wet and tender.

“Beautiful,” Jack murmurs against his mouth. “You’re beautiful.”

And then he’s moving down Bitty’s body again, nuzzling at his neck, licking along his collarbone. Bitty shivers. He reaches for Jack, tangles fingers into his hair, strokes. “ _God_ ,” he whispers, and it’s a real prayer. He needs heavenly help to stay in one piece right now. He thinks he might just melt, or explode, with everything he’s feeling.

“Bits,” Jack mumbles, kissing down his chest to his stomach. Bitty tugs on Jack’s shoulders, tries to bring him back up. It’s all too much, too deliberate. All the attention is going to combust him. But Jack’s insistent. “Let me,” he says, shying away from Bitty’s grasp. He presses an even strip of kisses, like Orion’s belt, across the flat span of Bitty’s stomach, then sucks a soft mark into the edge of his hip. Bitty seizes up and gasps.

Jack’s hands land heavily on his hips, untwisting them so Bitty can’t hide how hard he is. Flattened against the bed, he’s totally exposed, and he can feel Jack’s eyes on him, taking him in. Those eyes devour him, and Bitty feels the sweep of their gaze like a blanket, warm and encompassing.

Jack’s finger alights on the tip of his cock, smoothing down the wetness that’s already beaded there. “I’m going to–” Jack starts.

“Yes, Lord, Jack, _yes_ ,” Bitty bursts out, and he thrusts his hips up toward Jack’s hand.

Jack catches him – easily, like it’s a reflex – then works his hand down in a hard stroke that has Bitty crying out.

A stroke back up, another down, and oh _God,_ Jack’s hand on him is so warm and big and amazing, and Bitty can’t feel his toes, can’t feel anything but that heat and pressure wrapped around his dick. It’s so good, crushingly good, everything he ever dreamed of. “Jack,” he whispers, between gasps of uneven breath. His hips are making little pushing rolls up against the downward pressure of Jack’s strokes. His eyes flutter closed – he can’t see and feel at the same time, he doesn’t have enough nerves.

And then he feels something else. Something – oh, God, something wet. And so warm.

His eyes fly open and he cranes his neck to see down the bed and oh sweet merciful heaven….

Jack lifts his head. “Can I?” he asks. His voice is sheepish. Like he’s been caught doing something bad.

Bitty’s head swims. “You _want to_?” It’s unbelievable. The idea’s ludicrous. He’s dying to suck Jack’s cock, but he didn’t think it’d happen the other way around, he never even imagined Jack would –

Jack runs his tongue around the head of Bitty’s cock. Right then. As Bitty’s _watching._

Bitty might pass out.

Jack strokes his thigh, presses a kiss to the tip of his cock. “Can I?” he says again, with an ache in his voice, like he _really_ wants to.

Bitty wants to ask why, what on earth could possess Jack to want to do this, but the answer is all around him, has been for minutes now. It’s in the kisses still burning at the back of his knees. It’s in the swelling bruise at his hip, at the pressure of Jack’s hands against his thighs. And it was in the word whispered into his mouth barely a minute ago.

_Beautiful._

Jack thinks he’s beautiful. Bitty heard him say it, but it took this moment to make him believe it.

He leans down and passes a hand over Jack’s face. Jack nuzzles into it.

“Yes,” Bitty whispers. He drops his head back onto the pillow and closes his eyes.


	22. do i dare disturb the universe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nursey and Dex and a seduction with poetry... of sorts.

It’s Indian summer, and Nursey and Dex are on a blanket on the banks of the Pond, sitting under a tree and reading poetry. It’s stiflingly hot for October, and Dex keeps tugging at his collar with one hand.

Nursey watches the motion, strangely intrigued. Every time he thinks he’s memorized and catalogued all of Dex’s nervous motions, Dex adds one more to his repertoire. Nursey’s been stockpiling them in the back of his mind, an encyclopedia of all things Dex. The scowl. The aggressive shoulder-shrug. The anxious licking of lips.

And now, the collar pull. Nursey briefly considers sliding his own hand under that collar. Fingers skirting the nape of Dex’s neck, feeling the soft fine hair there. Working his hand up into Dex’s hair. Tilting his head forward to…

_Holy shit, son,_ he chides himself. _Breathe. Fucking breathe.  
_

He does. He concentrates on the feel and sound of his breath going in and out. The fire in his mind eases back to a controlled burn. He tests it by glancing at Dex again, studying the spatter of freckles on his nose and cheeks. Nothing explodes inside him at the sight. Good. Cool. He can handle it.

Dex doesn’t even know he’s looking. He reaches up to rake fingers through his hair, making it all stand up like an orange firecracker. “I don’t fucking get it,” he complains. “Why the hell did you make me take this class?”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Nursey reminds him. “You said ‘Explain your fucking poetry’ and I reminded you that there are people around here who do it professionally.”

“Keats and Yeats and Eliot, man. What is it with five-letter poets? And couldn’t they pronounce Keats and Yeats the same way? What the hell is with that, they’re one letter apart.” Dex is flushed, and he shifts on the blanket they’ve laid out, crossing his left leg over his right, then the other way around. Nursey watches him the way you watch a bug in a jar, endlessly entertained by the squirming and the desperate attempts to crawl out.

“With everything they have to say, you’re fixating on their names,” Nursey observes lazily.

“That’s as far as I can get. I can’t make heads or tails of their damn poems.” Dex throws the book down on the blanket. He looks like he’s spent an hour in an oven, from the way he’s flushing and the uncontrolled mess of his hair. Without thinking about it, Nursey leans forward to pat down those ridiculous cowlicks.

The minute his hand touches Dex’s hair, Nursey knows he’s in trouble again. A hurried breath sucks its way into his lungs, and his heartbeat gallops. Still, he rocks forward on his knees, pulling himself closer to where Dex sits. At this distance, he could lift a finger and trace the trail of freckles from Dex’s cheekbone to his nose. He could lean in and touch his forehead to Dex’s, dark hair sifting into light.

His hand pauses at the crown of Dex’s head. Then he slides it back, smoothing out the unruly crop of hair. Dex allows him.

“The poems are easy,” Nursey says, keeping his tone even and watching Dex carefully. Clear eyes, tender lips. “'A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’”

His hand moves to the nape of Dex’s neck. He’d thought about touching him there earlier. He’d imagined those fine hairs now tickling his fingertips. That low hearthfire within him blazes warm and bright.

“Which one’s that? Eliot?” Dex asks. He doesn’t jerk away or slip out of Nursey’s grip. He just sits, accepting the touch.

“Keats.” Nursey can hear his own voice go low and rough. “Eliot is Prufrock. You remember. We studied it two weeks ago.” Dex’s nape is warm beneath his fingers. “'Let us go then, you and I…”

“Yeah.” The word comes out all a sigh. Nursey feels the breath of it on his face. “I remember that one. It had some good lines. 'I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.’”

“Yeah.” Nursey’s gaze is on Dex’s lips now, on the small curving smile that forms in the wake of the quote. Dex is proud of himself for remembering that line. The thought of it, of Dex taking pleasure from the poetry at all, is melting him somehow. He meets Dex’s eyes again, sees joy there, feels that Dex still hasn’t moved from under his touch. Tries to make sense of it all. He can’t.

“Do I part my hair behind?” Dex quotes, still pleased with himself. “'Do I dare to eat a peach?’”

Nursey’s throat is tight. “'Do I dare…’” He swallows hard. “'Do I dare disturb the universe?’”

Dex tilts his head forward, knocks Nursey’s forehead with his own. His cheeks pink. Challenging.

“I don’t know, Nurse.” His lips quirk. “Do you?”

Nursey kisses him.

His hand comes forward to cup Dex’s jaw, and he’s leaning in before he can think, his mouth brushing those curved lips. He can feel Dex’s smile fade against his lips, and he braces himself to be pushed away. But Dex’s mouth relaxes beneath his, and then, improbably, purses.  Dex is kissing him back.

Nursey’s mind reels. He never thought. He never hoped. But Dex is lifting a hand to his hair, long fingers raking against his scalp and pulling him closer. Shivering, burning, Nursey lets himself be tugged in, free hand finding the plane of Dex’s chest and leaning. Dex’s heartbeat thumps beneath his palm.

Dex’s fingers find his waist and cinch tight there. They’re tangled up now, Nursey leaning on him, Dex holding him firmly in place with steady hands. And the kisses, God, the kisses go on and on, swipes of lip and tongue that make Nursey’s blood race in his veins.

Their mouths part. Nursey pants like he’s just been running. Dex licks his lips and smirks at him.

“Bet you didn’t think I was gonna seduce _you_ with poetry,” he says.

Nursey tries to catch his breath. “Not bad, man.”

Dex bumps their foreheads together one more time. “So I figured out why I took this class,” he says. There’s a raspy ache to his voice that makes Nursey’s heart twinge.

“I thought I made you take it.” He’s still panting.

“That’s kinda true,” Dex admits. His lips are kiss-pink. “Truth is… There’s this guy.”

“No shit.” Now Nursey can manage a grin. “Nice guy? Hot?”

“A pain in my ass,” Dex says flatly. But he’s still the one who leans in for another kiss.


	23. Two-Minute Penalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the prompt: talk to me about Jack's first fight in the NHL.

It’s a mess. One minute Franklin from the Bruins is ahead of him with the puck, and then it goes sliding toward the wall, and Jack zooms for it. He collides with Franklin trying to get to it, and then Getty is crashing into him, and then there are gloves and sticks everywhere and Getty’s shouting and Franklin’s swearing and somehow a fist comes out of nowhere and socks Jack in the mouth.

Adrenaline’s already spiking through Jack’s system, and the hit bloodies his lip and reddens his vision. Without thinking, without stopping, he throws a punch of his own. It lands, a solid hit to Franklin’s gut, and the grim sense of satisfaction powers Jack past the pain in his face. A swing comes at him from the side - he sees it – ducks – elbows Getty in the ribcage. Someone grabs him from behind. Jack fights the hold, trying to push forward out of it. He hears Tater’s roar as he joins the fray. Someone socks Jack in the stomach.  He spits blood onto the ice and readies another punch.

His elbow is caught. The refs have him then. The shrill whistle is screaming in his ears. Another ref is trying to rein in Tater. Getty is helping Franklin skate  away, Franklin leaning heavily on his shoulder. Jack’s senses seem to contract, then expand again. He hears “penalty, Providence, number 1” like it’s coming through a wall of water. He can’t feel his legs as he skates over to the box.

2:00 on the penalty clock. Sitting there, hearing the boos come up from the Boston crowd, he starts to return to himself. He lost it out there. He went way beyond the pale. Now Boston’s got a power play. He’s lucky it’s not 5-on-3: Tater just skirted getting thrown in the box along with him. This was just… stupid. Even though he knows he didn’t throw the first punch, it was stupid.

1:30 left on the penalty. His team’s struggling. This could be the psychological shot that takes them out. The Falcs are gritty, but they’re not immune, and Jack knows that even in this first year on the team, he’s become their public face. Having Jack in the penalty box could be a blow they don’t recover from in this period, or this game. Later, the guys could chew him out for losing his cool. The coaches could let him have it. And God almighty, but his friends are never going to leave him alone. _Bitty’s_ going to have a conniption fit.

1:15 on the clock, and all at once, Jack can only see Bitty’s disapproving face. Oh, how he’s going to be chided when he’s home. Bitty will have called him twenty times, ten of which were while the game was still going strong. His phone will be exploding with texts. And when he finally does get a chance to call Bitty back, he’ll have to endure about a half-hour of Bitty recounting every single thought that went through his mind since the fight. “It was a dirty punch, Jack, I saw it, it was! But did you really have to swing back? I know you, you could have just taken it, or gotten in his face at least, but oh, no, I know how riled up you get, but Lord, when I saw you go into that penalty box my heart just about stopped for you and what it must _feel_ like in there. To take that and then be _punished_ for it, I can’t _even.._.”

45 seconds left of the penalty. Yes, Bitty will chide him – but then he’ll start fussing about Jack’s injuries, making sure Jack has iced his jaw properly, prescribing a regimen of ice and painkillers as though he knows better than the medics, and most importantly suggesting that Jack needs nutrition to recover, and he should really talk an extra cheat day over with his nutritionist, because how does your body generate the energy to repair damaged tissue without “calories, Jack, and by calories I mean pie…”

30 seconds left, and Jack’s smiling now, despite the pain in his lip. He’s trying to focus on the game, getting the lay of the land for when he gets back on the ice. But now his brain is teasing him with the prospect of coming home to his apartment and finding Bitty asleep on the couch, having run up to Providence at the moment of the first punch and let himself in. It won’t happen, but it’s just enough of a tantalizing what-if to take Jack’s brain out of the pain and the moment. He never could afford such dreams before Bitty. He doesn’t even mind if they don’t come true – he’s grateful enough to have the capacity to dream them.

20 seconds, Boston has the puck, and when Jack blinks he can feel Bitty’s hand moving over the tender skin of his bruise. He can see Bitty’s pout, the concern in his bright brown eyes. “Oh, _honey_ ,” he’ll say, and that one word will be not just a fret but a declaration of love, a bestowal of forgiveness. An acceptance of Jack just as he is, flaws and all. A promise that Bitty will always be there, no matter what stupid moves he makes. 

5 seconds left. Snowy’s just saved two. Boston’s offense is pissed. Jack grimaces and puts his head back in the game. One way or another, he knows he’ll have something to look forward to when they’re done here tonight. Time to get up and do his part.


	24. Eight Reasons to Hate Jack Zimmermann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Year One fic.

He joked about it on his vlog: “Reason #17 to hate Jack Zimmermann.” But Bitty really could make a list. All the things, little and big, that annoy him about the gigantic weirdo who heads up the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team. He could even use citations: “Zimmermann J. ‘Get your mind back in the game, Bittle.’ Spoken aloud to Bittle E, March 20, 2014.” Perhaps, he thinks idly, he could submit it as his senior thesis:

 

## Eight Reasons to Hate Jack Zimmermann: A Chronology

_by Eric R. Bittle_

**REASON #1 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN:  
** Inability to call Bitty by his nickname.

Jack has no problem referring to Ransom and Holster or Shitty by their nicknames. But Bitty’s always “Bittle,” and it’s starting to get really annoying. “Bitty” is the new kid in the clubhouse, accepted and maybe even adored for his people skills and his pie-making prowess. Bitty’s gotten drunk with the guys, he’s stayed up all night having philosophical discussions about pop culture, he’s told he’s got great speed and soft hands. But Bittle? Bittle is just a fuckup. Bittle has no redeeming value whatsoever. Bittle gets looked at by those cold blue eyes and told to get with the program or quit. And while Bitty wants to stay on the team and be one of the guys forever, Bittle might as well take the first train home.

 **REASON #2 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN:  
** Insane emphasis on nutrition.

Bitty brought a pecan pie to meet the team for the first time. A pecan pie! Beautifully baked, the product of all his love and excitement for this new world he was joining. And what did Jack Zimmermann, Team Captain do? Watch with a scowl on his face as his teammates defiled that pie, as though he wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near it if it weren’t for his duties as captain. And then, at the first team breakfast Bitty’s courageous enough to attend, Jack fixes Bitty with those soul-dead eyes and tells him to eat more protein. Like Bitty hasn’t been trying to bulk up ever since he quit figure skating! Does Jack really think he just hasn’t bothered to try? No, you know what, never mind, that’s _exactly_ what Jack thinks. Because in Jack’s eyes, Bitty can do nothing right. Not even eat. Bitty can only imagine the little gremlins in that boy’s mind, prodding him with pitchforks and screaming: Y _ou can’t trust a piemaker! They eat evil things like sugar!_

**REASON #3 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN:**  
He enjoys freaking Bitty the fuck out.

No, seriously, he does it on purpose. Bitty will be doing his thing at practice, keeping nice and far away from the action, and Jack will holler something at him that he _knows_ by now will send Bitty into a coma. HEADS UP, BITTLE. COMING AT YOU, BITTLE. BITTLE, YOUR LEFT. And then when Bitty has the predictable reaction, Jack will go complain to the coaches about him. It’s his damn fault! If he would stop treating Bitty like a button dying to be punched, maybe Bitty would be able to actually get the darned puck and do something with it! But no, he’s unable to even pass without hollering like a banshee. You’d think the world-famous Jack Zimmermann (more on that in #4) would be able to read his teammates well enough that he’d know the shouting isn’t helping. But Bitty’s starting to doubt that Jack Zimmerman even wants to help.

 **REASON #4 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN:**  
He’s apparently Hockey Royalty.

It’s bad enough to know that Jack is a gigantic pain in the tush. But then it turns out he’s a _famous_ pain in the tush. Which gives Bitty the heebie-jeebies. Of all the people who could be famous on this team. Ransom would be an awesome celebrity. Shitty would probably be President by now. But no, it has to be Jack, sour dull Jack, whom everyone treats like he’s untouchable. Did he even end up captain because he’s good at hockey? Or is it some kind of legacy thing?

Okay, yeah, he actually is… really good … at hockey. Even Bitty has to admit that. Watching Jack in practice is like watching some kind of machine. Bitty’s never seen a puck fly that fast or that precisely outside of TV. It actually gives him the goosebumps. And to be Bad Bob’s son, and have that kind of talent? Bitty doesn’t like to spend a lot of time thinking about what it must be like to _be_ Jack Zimmermann, but he can’t imagine it’s terribly pleasant all the time. The pressure must be enormous.

Still. That’s no reason for him to be a giant sourpuss.

 **REASON #5 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN:**  
He seems to think he can change Bitty.

Checking practice is hours of torture. Jack keeps him there for five solid hours that first day, coming at him from a multitude of angles and SHOUTING half the time, just the way that freaks Bitty out. And he keeps peppering his little speeches with left-handed compliments, like “You almost had it then, you just have to stop shrinking back” and “that was a fast dodge, but you’re not supposed to dodge, that’s missing the point, Bittle.” At the end of the day, he crosses his arms and looks at Bitty and says, “That wasn’t bad progress, but you’ve got a long way to go. Same time on Tuesday, okay?” And leaves before Bitty can protest.

So. Apparently this checking practice is going to be a thing. Because Jack Zimmermann is incapable of failing, and he won’t allow weakness on his hockey team. Bitty will just have to change – not for himself, but because Jack wills it. That just… grates. And it makes Bitty feel like less of a person and more of a cog in Jack’s hockey machine. He came here to feel whole, but what is he when he exists to get (literally) knocked down?

But as Bitty gets more and more games under his belt without fainting or curling into a ball and crying, he has to admit that maybe all that practice is doing him some good.

 **REASON #6 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN:**  
He keeps giving Bitty false hope.

Before the Yale game, Bitty actually gets a glimpse of a Jack who isn’t perfect. A Jack who worries, who gets the jitters. And who smiles at Bitty, gives him a fistbump, and encourages him (in that weird Jack way, but still.) A Jack who actually wants Bitty to do _well._

And then Bitty actually does do well, and that Jack is completely gone. Instead Jack’s throwing a hissy fit (or the Zimmermann equivalent of a hissy fit) and stomping off into the darkness. So what if it was a lucky shot. It was still a shot, and it went in the net, and Bitty deserves to feel good about it. Jealous Captains or no.

Bitty’s only comfort in that moment is that the problem clearly isn’t with him. There’s something in Jack that’s always striving for something more, that’s always trying to prove something, and Bitty stole that moment from him tonight. As exhilarated as he was about the goal, Bitty feels like he let down a teammate, and that’s a genuinely awful feeling. Given a choice between the two, he might have preferred Jack get the shot, if only to see that smile one more time.

 **REASON #7 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN:**  
He doesn’t have half a clue just how good he really is.

They’ve been practicing together a lot. Not just the checking clinics, but at team practice, too. The coaches keep putting Bitty on Jack’s right wing, and for the first time Bitty’s got a hell of a closeup into just how fantastic Jack is at this game. They scrimmage, and Jack utterly destroys the competition. There’s just no match. It’s thrilling to watch him play from this vantage point, doubly thrilling to be the guy who gets him the puck so Jack can score.

But on the sidelines, as they take off their helmets, Jack tells him, “That was a nice pass, Bittle.”

Nice _pass_? It was just a pass! Jack’s the one who took the puck halfway down the ice and slipped it right through Ransom and Holster’s formidable defense, then drove it in so fast Henz didn’t even see it coming! Bitty tries to tell him how amazing he was, but Jack just grimaces. “I should have sent it back to you at the blue line,” he answers. “I could have gone left and gotten a clearer shot.” Bitty boggles. How can Jack still be thinking of ways he could have done it better? He _scored_ – how much more does he need?

Seriously, Jack could coast from here to the end of the season, but he never does. He’s always working harder. He’s always watching tape, and mapping out plays, and taking extra time on the ice. It’s obscene how hard he works. Can’t he just be a normal human being like the rest of them?

But Jack’s not normal in any way. He doesn’t party. He doesn’t often smile. (Sometimes, when Shitty’s around, Bitty sees a bit of a grin peek out - it’s a rare occasion, and Bitty’s started watching him carefully for signs of it, like a rainbow.) And when he chirps, it’s not in-your-face, it’s careful, sly little barbs that Bitty never saw coming. It’s starting to feel good to be the target of Jack’s chirps. They always feel lovingly crafted, just for him. And – to Bitty’s chagrin – it’s starting to feel good just to get his attention at all.  

 **REASON #8 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN:**  
???????

A few games ago, when Coach Hall said _his_ name for the starting line, Bitty wanted more than anything to be excited. But Jack’s face. Jack’s disapproving, awful face. Bitty felt more like he was being thrown into the mouth of a lion instead of getting a chance to start for his team. Playing with Jack was going to be terrible. Just terrible.

It wasn’t.

They won. And then when Hall put them on the same line again, they won again. And on their third game starting (is Bitty actually starting regularly now? What is _happening_?) Jack actually put a hand on his shoulder before they hit the ice and said, “Come on, Bittle. Let’s do this.”

It feels good. There’s something right about the way they move together on the ice, Bitty zipping along the edge as Jack plows his way down the center. Sending the puck back and forth. Bitty spinning it away from the other team’s sticks. Sailing it back to Jack with a sweet, straight line only they can see. And then, when Jack drives it deep into the net, the first person he grabs to hug is Bitty.

Jack even gave him an unsolicited compliment the other day. “Good job squaring up against that hit,” he said. Bitty pinked like he’d been out in the Georgia sun all day.

But the real kicker comes when Bitty heads upstairs in the Haus to clean up (he does _not_ use that downstairs bathroom, yuck) after baking some very sticky apple pies. And he comes downstairs to find Jack Zimmermann with his mouth around a bite, a fairly large slice sitting on a plate in his other hand. 

Jack swallows hastily, looking as though he’s just been caught with a murder weapon. “I, ah,” he says, “I thought you’d left.”

“Jack!” Bitty’s eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of his skull. “I had no idea you liked pie.”

“Well.” Jack says. “I figure a captain should be a role model. So I usually wait until no one’s around before I take a slice.”

Now Bitty’s ready to swoon from surprise. “Mr. Zimmermann. Does this mean you have been eating my pies all this time and I just never knew about it?”

Jack’s guilty expression makes Bitty’s heart do something very funny. Something he’d rather not think about too hard. For now, he’ll just tuck this brand-new knowledge into his heart and let it warm him on colder days. “Don’t worry,” he tells Jack with a wink, “it’s our secret.”

 **REASON #8 TO HATE JACK ZIMMERMANN** (amended):  
Bitty can’t find it in his heart to hate Jack Zimmermann at all.


	25. hurt-comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a really angsty prompt became a really angsty fic. still a happy ending, though.

Jack gets the text from Shitty. It just says _call when you can_. At first Jack doesn’t think much of it because a) Shitty’s prone to overreacting and b) Jack’s prone to underreacting. So between the two of them Jack thinks maybe Shitty’s driving himself crazy over some law school thing and just needs to scream at someone. 

Two things happen to change this initial assessment. First, Ransom and Holster both message him separately telling him to get in touch. Second, he suddenly realizes that Shitty was at the Samwell game tonight. In fact, the text that came in fifteen minutes previous to this one was, _your bf is fucking spectacular tonight._

He calls. Stilll not thinking it’s anything special. Maybe Shitty’s in the locker room with the guys and they all want to shout at him together over the phone. But when Shitty picks up, and his voice is ragged at the edges with a _Where the fuck have you been all night Jack!?_ , Jack knows with a stone-heavy heart that this is not a case of locker room shenanigans.

“What happened,” he says, his voice low and trembling.

“We’re at MGH _{Massachusetts General Hospital}_ ,” Shitty tells him. “Bits has been in surgery for three hours. Jesus, Jack. It was brutal. Shoulder and – and they’re saying maybe spine, they don’t know yet.“ The word _spine_ is whispered, like Shitty’s afraid the gods might get an idea.

A cold clawing hand scrapes across the bottom of Jack’s stomach. “I’ll be there in a few hours,” he says.

“Don’t you have a game?” And Jack does, they’re playing the Blackhawks tomorrow at 7 CST.

“I’ll be there,” Jack repeats, and hangs up.

His next call’s to Georgia, telling her he has to leave town. She’s furious at first. By the end of the call, she’s practically crying on Jack’s behalf.

“I’ll make it work out,” she tells him. “I’ll make it work somehow, Jack, just go.”

Jack gets a call from one of the owners next which, given the length between beeps, results in a lengthy, and probably angry, voice mail. He doesn’t listen to it.

* * *

 

It’s midnight by the time he arrives at Logan, nearly one by the time the taxi delivers him to MGH. Jack walks in and is instantly dwarfed by the sheer size of the place. He asks for a patient named Bittle. They can’t find a room for him. He’s still in emergency care, they discover after another minute of digging, and he’s pointed in the direction of a red path along the floor, which he needs to follow. It’d have to be red. Jack tries not to think of a trail of blood as he hurries down tiled hallways.

It’s Lardo who sees him first, and she jumps up and envelops him in an embrace. Then Shitty. Then the rest of the team, who are still sweaty and unshowered from their game. It smells like a locker room. To Jack, it smells like friendship, and he finally lets his spine uncurl, just a little bit. He’s been hunched over, lost to frantic imaginings, for hours now.

“Last we heard they were coming out of surgery,” Shitty tells him. “His parents are on the way up.”

“You would have been so proud of him tonight,” Ransom says quietly. “He was a fucking champ.”

Jack nods. “I am,” he says, and tries not to let his eyes water as he glances at the double doors separating them from the innards of the hospital.

The Bittles arrive at 4 a.m., looking like hell on earth. Suzanne immediately goes to Jack and starts crying. Jack folds one arm around her, shakes Coach with the other hand. “Have they said anything?” Coach asks, his brow tight and wrinkled with concern.

“Last we heard was two hours ago,” Jack tells him. “They’re monitoring him carefully. Watching his recovery from the surgery and the… ah… the swelling on his spine.” Like Shitty, he near-whispers it. Suzanne goes stiff and then sobs anew. Jack squeezes her tight.

They wait, sharing cups of coffee, a few of them daring to snooze on the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. Not Suzanne or Coach, though, and not Jack. Every second that ticks by lasts an hour. Once, he gets up to ask one of the nurses what’s going on. She doesn’t even know Bitty’s name. But she sends out an orderly who implores Jack to have patience. “We’ll let you folks know just as soon as we can,” he promises. “But you have to let us do our jobs.”

“Of course,” Jack says, sheepish. He creeps back to his chair and doesn’t ask again. 

People are in and out of the waiting room all night. A guy comes in with a mashed thumb. A few kids drag their sick fratmate in. People argue with the reception staff in heavily accented English. Jack doesn’t want to think ill of any of them, but he can’t help wishing everyone in Boston would just stay well and safe tonight. Every other patient means resources and time that could be devoted to Bits. As though adding more doctors and nurses would miraculously mean a different outcome. He tries to stop thinking it, but can’t, not entirely.

Around 6 a.m., the sun is starting to cast a hazy orange shimmer on the floor of the waiting room. A doctor comes out and recognizes Shitty. “Eric Bittle’s family?” she asks.

“Friends,” Lardo pipes up before Shitty can claim something he shouldn’t in his sleep-deprived mode. “Those are his parents. And his–”

“Boyfriend,” Jack says, because Shitty’s not the only sleep-deprived one. “Can we see him?”

She addresses Shitty and the group. “He’s doing well. We don’t have a bed for him yet, but he’s resting comfortably in the recovery wing. We’re hoping a bed will open up a little later this morning, at which point you all can take turns visiting. For now, I’ll ask these three only to come with me.”

Shitty looks about to throw down. Holster and Lardo instinctively reach out to calm him.

They leave their cell phones with the group - hospital policy - and make their way through the ominous double doors. It’s chaos on the far side. Makeshift beds everywhere, cots, bearing patients who are shivering or bleeding or moaning. The beep of heart monitors overlap each other, making it sound like the ER itself is a giant patient with a racing pulse. Jack can’t believe this is a normal hospital on a normal night, not some sort of epidemic. Are hospitals always this packed? 

They turn a corner. Jack expects to see Bitty, but he’s in none of the cots they pass, through none of the doorways. Another turn, another fruitless search. And then they’re led through a doorway, and tucked into a corner of the room…

Suzanne gives a cry and sprints forward. Coach puts his hand to his mouth. Jack just stares.

He looks so _small_ in the bed. Just a head and shoulders poking out from a thin blanket, one arm atop the sheets with an IV inserted. A bruise blooms on the side of his face, blue-purple. Not the worst Jack’s ever seen, but maybe the widest. Jack’s stomach turns. He stares, just stands and stares, as Suzanne turns to Coach and hides her face in his chest. The doctor stands and watches, waiting patiently to say her piece. At last Suzanne picks up her head, then glances at Jack. She nods, beckoning him to come closer. 

“We expect him to wake up within the hour,” the doctor says. “I’m sorry we don’t have more chairs.” She gestures to the one sterile-white chair alongside the bed. Coach and Jack both refuse it; Suzanne pulls it up to Bitty’s side and sits down. She finds his hand under the blanket and layers her own hand on top of it.  

Jack looks down at Bitty and tries to imagine the hit that led to that bruise. He flinches thinking of it. Bitty frowns in his sleep, like he can see it too. Jack’s heart aches. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Bits,” he says, leaning over the bed. “We’re all here. You’re gonna be just fine.”

“We won’t know for sure until he wakes up,” the doctor says, “but his prognosis is good. We don’t see any signs of damaging swelling on the spinal cord. His shoulder’s broken, but as breaks go it’s not bad. We just need to set it and he should recover in a few months.” 

“He’ll miss playoffs,” Jack says. “He’ll be disappointed.”

“He can go to more of your games,” Coach offers, and Jack catches a smile winking from beneath the mustache. He nods, lobbing a smile back at him. For an instant he remembers the night they came out, Coach’s furrowed brow and thoughtful frown. Then, too, he’d gotten a small smile at the end of the night. Along with a shaken hand and a warning to be good to Coach’s boy.

They stay like that, a motionless tableau, for a long time after the doctor leaves to pursue her other charges. Jack keeps looking down at Bitty, his lips pursed in sleep, and thinking about what the doctor said. _We won’t know for sure until he wakes up._ What if Bitty wakes up and he can’t feel his legs? What if something else has gone wrong, something they didn’t catch during the examinations or the surgery? What if something’s ruptured somewhere and Bitty wakes up in agonizing pain?

He wants coffee. He wants a bed. He can’t leave. He won’t. He needs Bitty to wake up. He needs those brown warm eyes to look in his direction and make everything better. What do you do when the one thing that always comforts you is the thing you’ve lost? How do you comfort yourself, then? 

Without thinking about it, he reaches out and takes Bitty’s other hand, the one already above the covers. The soft fingers don’t curl around his in answer, and that nearly breaks him. Bitty’s fingers wrapping around his have always been one of his favorite sensations. Even in sleep, Bitty’s always answered the touch of Jack’s hand. Now, here, he’s not. That claw of cold in the pit of his stomach returns.

“Dicky,” Suzanne says, and shakes her head. “I should never have let him play that awful game.”

“Don’t say that, Suzanne,” Coach says. “He knew what he was signing up for.”

“You wanted him to play it,” Suzanne shoots back. “Figure skating wasn’t manly enough, so you made him change.”

“Suzanne,” Coach says. It’s a warning.

“Eric loves hockey,” Jack says quietly.

They both shush and turn to him.

“He loves it,” Jack says. He rubs his thumb softly along the line of Bitty’s hand. “He loves being on the team and he loves the game. He told me about how he started. He said to me he was nervous at first, but the first time he put a puck in the net, he was sold. I don’t know whether he’ll want to keep playing after this, but I do know he doesn’t regret it.”

He gives Suzanne a wan smile. “When he wakes up, he’ll tell you that himself. He doesn’t regret anything.”

She manages to nod back.

The minutes, and the silence, drag on. Jack forgets to look at the clock. He busies himself studying Bitty’s face. How beautiful he is, even injured, even with a bruise the size of Massachusetts coloring the side of his face. The soft pout of his lips. The faint lift of his cheekbones. The flutter of his eyelashes.

Wait. His eyelashes are fluttering.

Bitty stares blankly up at the ceiling for a moment after his eyes open. Then, slowly, he turns his head toward his parents. Then toward Jack.

His fingers curl around Jack’s.

“Hi, y’all,” he says weakly.

“Dicky!” Suzanne is on her feet, squeezing the life out of Bitty’s hand. Coach puts an arm around her to steady her. Jack just smiles. Those may be tears he’s blinking out of his eyes. He’s not sure.

“Did we win?” Bitty asks.

Jack laughs. “Yeah. 3-2. The boys rallied. They didn’t want to go into OT and be stuck on the ice when you were heading up here.”

“How do you feel?” Suzanne asks. She leans forward and brushes some sweat-damp hair off Bitty’s forehead.

“Hungry,” Bitty says. “And itchy. My feet itch. Can someone scratch my big toe?” His feet wiggle beneath the blanket.

Jack’s eyes fly to Suzanne’s, then to Coach’s. That’s the best sign they could have asked for.

* * *

 

It’s midafternoon before Jack has a chance to be alone with Bitty. They’ve moved him to a room by then, and he’s sitting up, his neck and shoulder steadied with a collar and sling. They’ve already had him eat some lunch, and the team’s been in to shower him with stuffed animals and flowers. Someone (Lardo, maybe?) had the presence of mind to fetch Senor Bun. Bitty lit up and grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

“Don’t you have a game tonight, mister?” Bitty chides him when his parents step away for a few moments. 

“They can handle it,” Jack says.

“Jack.” Bitty’s chiding him already, his pout deep and indignant.

“I’m not going to make it back to Chicago by game time,” Jack says. “And I wouldn’t even if I could. I’ll head back tomorrow.” 

Bitty flushes. “Thank you for coming up.”

Jack weighs the best answer. Eventually, he just hangs his head and sighs. “Thank you for being okay,” he says.

“Come here,” Bitty says. “I can’t lean, so you’ve gotta make it up. Come let me kiss you.”

Jack obliges. He can’t help letting out another little sigh into the kiss. Bitty laughs against his mouth. “Sweetheart, I’m okay! I’m so sorry I worried you. You would have been proud of me, though. I didn’t flinch.”

“Maybe you should start avoiding checks again,” Jack says, only halfway meaning it. 

“Are you kidding me? My coach would _kill_ me.” Bitty’s face, flushed and teasing, sets Jack’s heart pumping with joy.

“I happen to know he wouldn’t,” he replies. 

“Don’t argue with me, I’m in the hospital,” Bitty says tersely, but he winks. “Now give me another kiss. I didn’t think I’d get to see you this week. I’m going to take advantage of it while it lasts.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack murmurs, and kisses him again. “Hey Bits … you don’t regret it, do you?”

“Regret what? Getting knocked onto my face? I do sort of wish that’d gone differently.” 

“Everything. Hockey.”  He hasn’t realized until just now how much he has riding on Bitty’s answer to that question. His heart is all clenched up into a ball waiting for the answer.

When it comes, it’s with a gale of laughter. “Oh, Lord, no! What’s to regret? I’ll be back on the ice come August, just you wait.” 

Jack leans in for one final kiss. “You ought to tell your parents that, eh?”

“Huh? All right, but…” Bitty looks at him sideways for a second, then grins. “Whatever you say, Mr. Zimmermann. But it’s a stupid question. Regret hockey? How else on this green earth was I gonna meet you?”

“You have a point,” Jack says. He settles into the chair besides Bitty’s bed and takes his good hand as the doorknob turns. As the Bittles file back in, Bitty’s fingers close around Jack’s again.


	26. after a kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for NurseyDex week, daily theme "gender/sexuality headcanons"
> 
> In which Nursey is pan and Dex is... confused.

The first time Nursey kisses him, Dex freaks out.

Not just a “what the hell, what the fuck, what _was_ that” freakout, though that happens too. A legitimate, full-on, heart-pounding freakout. Dex flattens himself against the opposite wall, putting as much space between himself and Nursey as he possibly can, and stares fucking daggers across the room. 

Nursey’s standing there, arms still half-outstretched from where he pulled Dex in, chin jutted a little forward, brow furrowed. He’s looking at Dex like he expected something totally different.

Which, how, how could he expect something different? Dex is – he’s not – maybe Nursey is, but Dex –

“Fuck,” he mutters, and looks for words. When he blinks, he thinks he has some, but when his eyes fall on Nursey again, they all run blank. 

“Will,” Nursey starts. His gaze focuses, and it feels like a hammer hitting Dex in the head, all the power and sincerity in those eyes. It confuses him, disarms him. He can’t stand it.

He makes for the door and heads out into the street.

* * *

What the fuck? What the _fuck?_

Dex tears across the sidewalks, pulse pounding, feet hard and heavy as they fall in a rhythm that very nearly matches.  He was – Nursey was – they were just fucking _talking_ , and then Nursey’s hand was on the back of his neck like he was just going to pat his back or some shit but instead Nursey leaned in and –

fuck, he’s gotten kissed. By a _guy_.

Fuck, a guy kissed him. Dex has to get over this before he can start even addressing the fact that _Nursey_ kissed him. He’s got to go at this like a computer program. Solve the problem in one process before you solve the rest. Hang out between the curly brackets until you’ve got that part working, then look outside it.

A guy kissed him. And okay, whatever, Dex is a 21st century guy, he’s at _Samwell_ of all places, he should be good with that. Fuck, he should have known this would happen at Samwell, but the scholarship was too good to pass up. He hadn’t wanted to be in this preppy-ass school to begin with. Dex isn’t homophobic, and the whole one-in-four thing didn’t scare him, but he just never thought it’d touch _him._ He doesn’t do that kind of thing. He never has.

He’s literally never done _anything_ like that. Ever. 

_(Oh, God, fucking listen to yourself, Poindexter, you even **sound** like Nursey.)_

But it’s true. Literally never. Dex gets crushes on girls. Or at least he thinks he does. He’s never actually gone out with one. He liked Allison Taylor, though. Her straight blonde hair and the way she dressed, all neat and put together. He asked her to prom. She said no. She was going with Chuck fucking Shaw. Dex didn’t go to prom.

Emmy Jackson asked him out. He almost said yes. She was cute. But it was a bad time, and Tracey was sick again, and he had to work nights. 

But it’s girls, right? He’s into girls. It’s girls in his spank bank. Not that he’s a big masturbator. It’s by and large not something he spends a whole lot of time on. Why the hell would you, when there’s always something that needs fixing or putting together, or always someone there who needs feeding or company? Dex has shit to do. And what’s worse, masturbating is _hard._ It hurts if you aren’t super horny to begin with, and it’s hard to concentrate on one thing for that long and keep it up, so to speak. Whatever. It’s not a _thing_ with him.

_(Maybe you’ve been doing it wrong, you big fuck. Remember that one time Warren Parks got fucking stuck in your head? You didn’t have any trouble that time.)_

_(But that time I had just come off seeing that movie with those sex scenes and I was revved up. Warren had nothing to do with it. He was just on my mind because what’s-his-face from the movie looked like him.)_

Dex slams through his dorm room door. His roommate’s out. Good. He can sit here and stew. He deposits himself on his bed, folds his hands behind his head, and stares at the ceiling like he can burn a hole in it with the power of his mind.

Nursey. Goddamn _Nursey._

And things have been so much better with him. Sure, they still give each other hell, but that’s been part of their friendship from the first. Dex has been giving himself a pat on the back lately every time he lets one of Nursey’s “chill”s ride by without comment. He’s learning to be tolerant. Allowing dissenting viewpoints. Personal growth. Nursey’s presence no longer feels so far outside of his comfort zone.

The opposite, actually. Shit’s not as fun without Nursey there throwing cool shade, smirking, nudging Dex’s shoulder with his own. Dex throwing a playful nudge back. The two of them grinning at each other. Dex making a snide comment, Nursey answering it. Sometimes Chowder’s there, smiling wide as though he’s just witnessed a Kodak moment. Sometimes Ransom and Holster look at each other, look at them, and cough loudly with the words “drift compatible” stuck somewhere in the cough. Dex and Nursey privately agree that that’s bullshit. They wouldn’t be able to stand a microsecond in the other’s head.

But just being themselves, in their own heads, together? That’s working out pretty damn well right now.

Somehow Nursey got it into his head that what they have is… more than what they really do. That’s all. Dex should let him down easy, give him some time. Things’ll be awkward, but Nursey’ll come around. Not least because Nursey never leaves well enough alone. 

* * *

“You left your phone,” Nursey says, pressing it into the flat of Dex’s hand. His fingers whisper a touch against the side of Dex’s palm and then are gone.

Dex stands, bewildered, at the door to his dorm room. When he heard Nursey’s voice, he’d thought for a minute that Nursey was here to scream his head off, or try to kiss him again, or something equally bombastic. He’s sure his expression betrayed his dread as he opened the door. But Nursey is just handing him his phone and looking at him with that soft smirk that indicates an oncoming chirp.

“Seriously, Poindexter,” Nursey goes on. “Don’t fucking leave your phone at my place and then get all freaked out that I have to come apologize in person. I would have texted, _but._ ”

Dex curls his fingers around his phone, feeling it solid and hard in his hand. A reminder of reality. “You’re apologizing?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Nursey leans against the doorframe, checking for hallway traffic and finding none. “You weren’t into it, which is chill. So whatever. I’m sorry I made you freak out.”

“I didn’t freak out,” Dex says automatically. Then, as his mind scrambles backwards across the words of Nursey’s sentence, “It’s chill?”

“Yeah.” Nursey shrugs. “I mean, what am I gonna say, it’s _not_ chill? Nah, it is what it is, man. Hey, think of it this way. You get the satisfaction of knowing I struck out with you.” He offers a grin, but it’s not a happy look, and Dex doesn’t feel very happy to see it.

* * *

Things normalize over the next few days. Time and practice wait for no man, so he and Nursey are on the ice together within twenty-four hours. Nursey’s as sharp as he ever is, and Dex enjoys the feeling of connecting with him, the two of them running their tandem drills like a pair of experts. When they scrimmage, their defense is tight, and they block Bitty and Whiskey’s shots so impressively that Rans and Holster give them simultaneous thumbs-up as they leave the ice. Dex enjoys and relaxes into the combination. At least when they’re not talking, they still connect the way they used to.

Talking itself isn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared it would be, either. Dex’s palms are sweating when they sit down to team breakfast, but Nursey is as cool and collected as always, plopping down in his seat and good-naturedly ribbing everyone in the group, including Dex. He has such an annoyingly jock personality, Dex thinks, the usual spark of frustration lighting low in his head. But it’s refreshing to be annoyed at Nursey. Dex was afraid he’d be walking on eggshells around him, but he’s not. 

If there’s an awkward moment, it comes after their next game, when their defense is unshakeable. One goal gets through, and it’s not on Dex and Nursey’s line. Afterward, Nursey comes up and plants his fist on Dex’s head, rubbing hard. 

“Poindexter, you beautiful son of a bitch,” he says with a wide grin. “I could kiss you.”

Dex glares at him.

Nursey winks. “I _won’t_ ,” he adds, “but I could.”

* * *

All of this should be leaving Dex in a much better place. He should be relaxing, letting the past be the past, getting back to enjoying his life and the comfortable friendship with Nursey that seems to have weathered a brief storm. 

Instead, he’s lying awake at night, trying to conjure up the feeling of Nursey’s lips on his again. 

He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. If anything, he should be trying to _forget_ everything about the incident. Let it go live in the dustheap of history, never to be recalled again. But there’s something about it that keeps pulling him back to the moment. The slowdown of time when he realized Nursey was leaning in – the impression of fingers on the back of his neck – Nursey’s face so close Dex could see every pore, every individual short prickle of stubble – the brush of impossibly soft lips against his own, the press and hold and wet warmth –

Dex realizes he’s puckering his lips as though he’s kissing air. He wills his face to relax. 

That, he manages to do. Willing his dick to relax ends up being a much more difficult proposition.

* * *

Nursey has writer’s block. He’s rolling around on the Quad, literally rocking from side to side in the grass, bitching about it.

“Shut up,” Dex tells him, flicking some spears of long grass at him. “Think of a word and write it.”

“I’ve _tried_ ,” Nursey complains. “The word that comes to mind when I do that is ‘potato.’“

Dex can’t help letting out a snort of laughter. “So write a poem about a potato.”

“I’ve already _done_ that,” Nursey whines. “It was a fucking good poem, too.”

“Then write a poem about– I don’t know–” Dex looks around. His gaze finally rests on his own hands. “Write a poem about _me.”_

_“_ I’ve already done that, too,” Nursey says.

* * *

Dex absolutely does not wonder what Nursey’s written about him. But if he did, he’d wonder when it got written. Was it before or after Nursey got a wild hair up his ass to kiss Dex? Was Nursey pining? Is Nursey even the pining type? He’s a poet, so he’s romantic at heart. Did Nursey think he was in love? No, that’s ridiculous. People in love don’t say “chill” if they’re not kissed back.

_(You totally kissed back. You freaked out good afterward, but you totally did kiss back for just a moment. You couldn’t not. His lips were so warm, they made you melt a little.)_

But Nursey thought he was attracted, at least. He found (finds?) Dex attractive. Why? What about him is attractive? Does Nursey have a thing for freckles? And Dex has muscles, but nothing like Nursey’s. If Nursey has a thing for muscles, he should just stare in the mirror and fall in love with himself instead. It can’t be Dex’s face. Again, if Nursey has a thing for faces, he should just stare in the mirror. 

Come to think of it, Nursey is just in general one attractive son of a bitch.

* * *

“So are you gay?” Dex asks late one night, when they’re sharing a blunt. Dex doesn’t get too happy when he’s high. Nursey, on the other hand, turns into a koala bear. He’s all about the cuddles.

“Nah. Pan.” Nursey’s feet are draped over Dex’s lap, and he’s lying down on the couch staring up at the ceiling like he can see the Bible written across it.

“Pan?”

“Yeah, dude. It’s like, what you got between the legs or whether you like to be called a man or a woman or whatever doesn’t matter to me. If I like you, I like you cause it’s you, not because of what box you put yourself in.”

“Oh.” Dex frowns. “That’s… enlightened, I guess. But like, you don’t like boobs more than flat chests or the other way around?”

“I like ‘em both.” Nursey sits up, stretches, then flips his whole body so his head lands in Dex’s lap. For a moment, he nuzzles Dex’s abs - Dex snorts, because it tickles - then turns to the other side and hums. Dex should by all rights be annoyed, or at least uncomfortable. Especially since the kiss. But. Whatever. He’s not.

“But you don’t – is it 50-50, or 60-40, or what?” he asks.

“Does it matter?” Nursey replies. “The point is, if I see someone and they’re attractive, I can be attracted to them. Male, female, enby, whatevs.”

“Enby?”

This starts a whole new discussion. Getting high with Nursey is always a learning experience.

 

* * *

Dex needs to get his rocks off. It’s been a while. He can feel the tension on him like a weight. He should go pick up a girl. Maybe at the kegster tomorrow night. Since he’s been here, he’s had girls interested in him once in a while. But sex is hard. Almost as hard as masturbating. You gotta think about someone _else_ while trying to keep _yourself_ interested and after a few awkward one-night stands Dex decides he isn’t enjoying himself enough to make it worth the risks, emotional and/or physical. He goes to kegsters to enjoy himself with the guys, not to get laid. Winter Screw is an exercise in patience.

Tonight he’s got no fucking patience. Tonight he needs to get off, and he gets the feeling he’s gonna get off hard.

He summons up the spank bank and gets started. These days it’s less of a person and more of an experience. He pictures himself getting busy with some faceless partner. Hips slapping against his. Arms winding around his shoulders, hands hard on his back. A face close to his, lips whispering across his ears, down his jaw. Hot breath on his face.

Tonight his mystery partner is dark-skinned. A gorgeous shade of olive-brown, Dark hair. She’s curvaceous, with wide hips and thick thighs. Dex wants to fuck her so badly he’s panting, already, running his hand over himself. 

And because his mind is a steam engine of frantic thought, he goes with the notion that pops up in his head that maybe she’s not a she. Maybe she’s one of those enbys Nursey told him about. Maybe “she” is a “they.” Maybe Dex is fucking a different hole. Maybe.

Maybe they’ve got stubble and intense green-gray eyes. 

Maybe they’re into hockey. Maybe they read a lot. Maybe their voice is a soft baritone, always easy and cool. 

Maybe they say, when he comes, “Chill, Poindexter, I’ve got you.”

Maybe Dex should be feeling bad about this. Or scared. Or anything but post-coitally blissed out.

Whatever. He reaches for his box of tissues.

* * *

The kegster is fun. He and Chowder and beat Bitty and Holster at pong. Lardo and Rans hand them their asses. The tub juice tastes better than anything ought to that’s had that many bottles of liquor poured into it. At two a.m., he’s out back, watching a dwindling number of drunk-ass college boys play some game that involves a beach ball and full-body tackles. Nursey’s among them, for a while. Eventually he gets thrown to the ground, laughs, and crawls his way over to where Dex is.

“Come fucking save my ass,” he begs. He’s on his hands and knees.

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I forgot, you like watching me suffer. No,” he barks to the guy behind him, who’s trying to drag him back, “I’m out. Jesus. Will. Save me, give me a hand at least.”

He reaches out. Dex grabs him, palm to palm. Nursey pulls himself over and plonks himself down onto the grass next to Dex. Their hips brush.

“What time is it?” Nursey eyes the sky like he’s expecting the sun to rise any minute.

Dex pulls out his phone. “2:30.”

“Jesus. We’re going to end up crashing here tonight, aren’t we?”

“Nah. I’ll get you home.”

“S’cool,” Nursey says. “When you’re toasted enough, the Haus floor is comfortable as shit.”

He has this happy Cheshire cat smile painted on his face. Despite having dragged himself out of whatever brutal game the boys were playing (they’re heading inside now). Despite the time and the promise of a wooden pillow.

“Hey, Dex,” he says abruptly, “I’m freaking glad, you know.”

“What?”

“That we’re still chill. That I didn’t fuck things up. I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Oh.” Dex frowns. He doesn’t know why this upsets him, but it does. No, he _does_ know why this upsets him. “So, Nurse,” he says, turning. “Did you get over me, or what?”

“Huh?” Nursey screws up his nose like a kitten when he’s confused.

“Like. You wanted to kiss me. But now you don’t? Did you wake up one day and realize I’m ugly? How did that work?”

“Dex,” Nursey says, and if there’s a warning note in his voice Dex blows past it.

“Or maybe you were just fucking with me to start with? Maybe this was your way of trolling the shit out of me?”

“Will, _no.”_ There’s significance in Nursey switching names on him, but Dex doesn’t know what it is.

“So, like, say I was drunk enough and decided I wanted to kiss you. Would you kiss me back?“

“Don’t,” Nursey says, frowning at him.  

“Why not? What, you can do it but I can’t?”

“Because number one, you are _not_ that drunk, and number two, you don’t want to kiss me, we’ve established that.” Nursey tries to rise to his feet.

Dex grabs his wrist. “Maybe I am,” he says, “and maybe I do.” He leans closer. Close enough to feel Nursey’s exhalation against his face.

“Fuck, Will, _no.”_ Nursey recoils, yanks his hand away, and gets to his feet. He has to steady himself against the side of the Haus.

Dex rises. Everything from his face to his shoulders feels hot and tight. “What, so you _were_ fucking with me? Was this the whole joke, to make me wonder? So I could come back and try, and then you’d shut me down?”

Nursey’s face goes cold. “Go the hell home, Dex, you’re drunk.”

“So now I’m the one who struck out with you? That’s a pretty fucking funny joke there, Nurse. I’m laughing my ass off.”

“Go home. I’m not talking to you anymore.” Nurse turns stiffly to head back into the house. Just before he disappears, he looks over his shoulder and says, “I will have Ransom and Holster throw you out if you talk to me again, do you fucking hear me?”

He goes. Dex stares at the place where he was. He can’t feel his fingers and toes. Wobbling, he makes his way along the side of the Haus and starts heading for home.

* * *

Dex wakes up at 9 the next morning. He stays in bed until noon. Awake. Thinking.

* * *

Nursey’s home when Dex comes around. But he’s not sure he wants to open the door. Dex can’t blame him. But he tried texting, and there was no answer.

“Nurse, we have to at least talk about this,” he shouts through the wood.

“We don’t have to talk about it _today.”_ But Nurse’s voice is halfhearted, and a moment later he opens up. He looks gray, his hair mussed and his expression blank. A pang contracts Dex’s heart. He forces himself past it.

“So first things first,” Dex says. He walks across the room to lean on Nursey’s desk. “I’m sorry for pulling shit when I was drunk. It’s not an excuse. And you were drunk too. So I shouldn’t have–”

“Forget it, forget about it,” Nursey mumbles. He doesn’t sound like he means it. He doesn’t sound like he means _anything_ today.

“No, Nurse, I’m not going to forget about it. I know I fucked up. I just want you to know why.”

“I know why,” Nursey says. “I get it, you’re still pissed about the kiss. You’ve been hiding it well, but you’re not okay with it, you never have been. And that’s chill. It’s fine. You’re allowed to not be okay with it. I’m sorry if I made you think you had to play it cool when you needed some space.”

Dex blinks. He takes a moment to wrap his head around this. Then he sighs. “Nurse. That is the opposite of what I came here to say.”

Now Nursey shows some signs of life. His eyes catch the light. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“I have never in my life considered – I– Christ.” Dex puts a hand to his lips, tries to reform his words. “I didn’t _do_ guys. I don’t do anything. Any of this. I don’t care about it. You know. Getting laid. Dating. Whatever. I don’t spend a lot of time on it. And when I do, it’s girls, because that’s how it’s supposed to work. I know, I know, not for everyone, but if I’m gonna do it, it’s gonna be the simplest way possible, because I don’t have _time_ for it to be complicated.”

“That’s… not always the way it works,” Nursey says, with a sad smile touching his lips. Dex wonders what’s behind that smile. He wants to hear the story of how it came to be. But not now. Now’s the time to get things said.

“Yeah,” he answers, “I’m getting that.” 

Nursey cocks his head, frowns, looks at him. He looks alive now, interested.

Dex goes on. “Here’s the thing. I never thought of it. With you. Or really anyone, but never with you. But you made me think about it, Nurse, you had to know that was going to happen. That I was going to think about it. You had to have that in your mind when you went in the first time for–”

“I didn’t,” Nursey says. “I wasn’t thinking much of anything at all, Will. I swear.”

“Well, whatever. The point is, I thought about it. And shit, Nurse, I–” Dex slides a hand behind his head, scratches at his hair. “I didn’t mind it. Thinking about it. Cause it was you, and we were still okay, and maybe once in a while I wanted to think about it. How it felt. How you felt. Kissing me.” The last two words fall almost too soft to be heard. “And then, maybe once in a while, I thought about whether you’d ever do it again.

“But you never did. And I got pissed off. I got it in my head that you knew exactly what would happen, that you were doing this as some kind of joke to make me question my sexuality and get confused because you like to see me frustrated.”

“God, no.” Nursey looks utterly horrified. “I’d never. Not even to an enemy, _definitely_ not to a friend.”

“Well, that’s what happened.” Dex frowns. “Whether you wanted it or not. And that’s what happened last night. I was confused, and I was pissed because I don’t want to be and I don’t have time for this.”

“Like I said,” Nursey says carefully, “it’s cool. We were drunk. And now you’re not confused anymore, right?”

“Right,” Dex says. ‘I’m not confused.”

“Then we’re good. Nothing else to talk about.”

“Goddamn it, Derek.” Dex curls one palm into a fist. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I’m listening, you’re not confused anymore, you know you don’t want me. It’s all sorted out, it’s chill–”

“Derek, for God’s _sake_!” 

It’s the most Dex has raised his voice since he came through the door. Nursey falls silent. 

Dex takes a moment, then goes on. “I’m not confused. I know what I want. But right now I’m just goddamn frustrated because I am trying to tell  you what I want, and it’s not coming out right.” He takes a step forward. “I’m trying to tell you I want it. You. I want you to kiss me again, and I want – I want to see how it feels.”

Nursey blinks. Then he shakes his head.

“You don’t want me to kiss you again,” he says. “You’re just curious.”

“Of course I’m curious!” Dex is going to lose his cool in an minute. “For God’s sake, Derek. You kissed me and I liked it and I want to know if there’s more there. Is that such a crime?”

“I’m not saying it’s a crime,” Nursey starts. “I’m just saying that I don’t want to be some sort of an experiment to you. I care about you too much to be used and then thrown away when you figure out, whoops, you’re not into guys after all–”

“Nurse.” Dex reaches his boiling point. “Just. Shut up.”

And with that, he reaches out and yanks Nursey close and kisses him.

Nursey makes a soft sound. And then his hands are snaking up Dex’s sides, pressing into the small of his back, and he’s leaning in, kissing back like he wants to drown in it. Fire roars in Dex’s gut. He cards a hand through Nursey’s hair, presses his other hand at Nursey’s upper arm, squeezing. Nursey groans, opening his mouth, tugging at Dex’s lower lip with his teeth. 

Last time, Nursey’s kiss lasted less than a moment before Dex’s brain shut down and he freaked out. This time, Dex can think straight. And he understands now. He knows what he’s feeling. And he knows that he wants to go on feeling it for as long as Nursey will let him.

They cling, and kiss, and kiss some more, and then break apart with matching sighs.

“How many fucking times do I have to say it?” Dex says when he can find his voice. “It’s you. It’s not about guys, Nurse, it’s _you._ I thought your ‘pan’ self would understand that.”

Nursey’s eyes are shining. “I get it,” he says, “I get it.”

A smile tugs at the edges of his mouth. Dex watches it come out like sunshine.

Then he leans in to kiss it away.


	27. proud of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We start here:
> 
> (if you can't see the image, it's the last image of Playoffs III - Bitty holding Jack on the loading dock)

For a long time Bitty just holds him. Jack smells of sweat and sorrow and defeated dreams, and in the heat of this moment, it’s hard to imagine there being any future beyond this one lost game. As Jack sits on the loading dock and hangs his head, tears dropping from his eyes onto the pads of his underarmor, Bitty just holds him and wishes. He wishes something, anything, were different in this moment. He wishes his embrace meant more to Jack than the embrace of any other teammate. He wishes Jack’s tears were tears of joy. He wishes he had any power to change the situation at all. Any little change, he thinks, would render this situation a little less hopeless. As things are, it feels like the worst of all possible worlds.

“Bittle,” Jack says. His voice is rough with disuse and wet with tears. It’s heartbreaking to hear. Bitty eases up on his embrace, keeping a hand firmly on Jack’s shoulder, and tilts his head to look up at him.  

“We. Uh. We ought to go. I need to change.”

“Are you _ready_ to go?” Bitty asks, because the whole damn world can wait if Jack needs to sit here longer and come to grips with the loss.

“I.” Jack starts, and Bitty wonders if anyone’s ever asked him a question like that before. “I guess so. Yeah.”

Together they wind through the halls of the arena, making their slow way back to the locker room. No one bothers them. It’s like Jack has put up some kind of invisible barrier, and the world knows better than to try to penetrate it. Bitty doesn’t know which is more surprising: that Jack has that power, or that he, Bitty, is allowed inside that bubble when no one else is. A piece of him can’t help but thrill.

Back in the locker room, deserted now, Jack strips, showers, and returns running a towel over his head. He dries his beard. “Guess I’ll be shaving, eh?” he says, trying to summon up a little of his usual dry humor. Bitty feels the attempt  like a knife between his ribs. Jack is trying so hard. Bitty wants to tell him he doesn’t have to.

“And I’m gonna have to get the chop,” Bitty says, running a hand through his own overgrown hair.

“Yeah.” Jack lobs him a half-smile. “You look like you did when you were a frog, Bittle.”

Bitty frowns. “Suppose I probably do,” he agrees reluctantly.

“It’s all right, though,” Jack says, pulling on a pair of shorts. “It’s kind of cute.”

Bitty’s heart does a flying somersault. “It, what?” he says. He does not know how to process Jack calling him cute, in any circumstance.

Jack shrugs. “You look like a high school kid with your hair long,” he clarifies.

Ah. Cute like a high school kid. That’s… not a compliment. Bitty scowls. “I’ll have Lardo chop it off soon,” he says with a sigh.

Jack stretches his way into a T-shirt. Bitty tries not to watch the tautness of his arm muscles, the wide plane of his chest beneath the fabric. It’s a futile fight. “Let’s go home, eh?”

“Mm-hm.” Bitty scrambles to his feet. “Listen, Jack… you played really well tonight.”

Jack regards him a minute. Bitty wonders if it’s too soon, if he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe this will darken Jack’s mood again. Maybe he’ll stalk off alone.

But Jack just shakes his head, and a small, dark smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks,” he says. “We all tried our hardest. It just… wasn’t meant to happen for us.”

“We’re all so proud of you, Jack,” Bitty says. His arms feel leaden and awkward at his sides. “We all really wanted to do well for you.”

Jack takes a long breath. “Yeah. I know.” He meets Bitty’s gaze. “I’m proud of you, too.”

And there goes Bitty’s heart again, skipping and skittering along his ribs. Because Lord, if it doesn’t feel like Jack is saying it directly to _him_ , even though Bitty is speaking for the whole team. It feels like Jack’s singling him out.

He inhales, trying to find something to say, but the words never come out. Instead, the breath is knocked away from him, squeezed out by the sudden press of Jack’s arms. Jack is holding him again – no, Jack’s holding him for the first time – he never returned Bitty’s embrace before. Now, Bitty finds his head resting on Jack’s chest, fingers cinching at Jack’s waist to hold himself steady and keep himself from fainting. The embrace is unbearably warm.  Bitty’s heart thunders, and his mind melts.

“Thank you, Bittle,” he hears in a whisper above him. And with that, his own tears come – not the heartbroken tears he saw Jack shed before, but tears of sorrow nonetheless, for their loss and the missed opportunity to get Jack that trophy he’d been striving for. Some piece of him had believed wholeheartedly in the story that could have been told tonight – the triumph of Jack’s return, the culmination of his work here at Samwell delivered in the eleventh hour. It didn’t happen, and they leave this rink not as legends but as mortals, trying – like everyone else – to go on.

Even so, isn’t there a little bit of triumph in this embrace? Aren’t Jack’s arms around him right now the sign that something has been built here, something has been conquered? It’s not the shining trophy they’d dreamed of, but it’s a victory in itself. Jack Zimmermann is thanking him, and holding him, and letting Bitty see his tears. It’s a reality Bitty couldn’t have dreamed of, a year and a half ago, when Jack was capable only of scowls and grim determination. Maybe they’ve won something tonight after all.

He pulls back. “Gosh, Jack, now you’re making me cry!” He sniffles and wipes his eyes.

“Sorry.” But Jack’s smile is fond. He lets go. “So… home?”

“Home,” Bitty agrees. They gather up their things and exit the locker room. Side by side, teammates and friends, they leave Faber behind.


	28. remind me to edit this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was tasked with writing about Bitty and Jack's inevitable sex tape. As you might imagine, I had some fun with it.

It isn’t meant to be a sex tape. It’s meant to be a Bitty-feeding-Jack-pie tape. (This is after they’ve come out, after the Falcs have reiterated their support and after the fan community has circled the wagons around Jack and Bitty, promising to protect them and their love and happiness to the extent that it brings both of them to tears. Now, Bitty’s a semi-famous Youtuber and Jack’s a happy pro and all of that _mishegoss_ is dealt with.)

Bitty brings Jack onto the vlog, every so often, just for fun. Today he’s made a strawberry chocolate pie. “Just to prove to you how dang decadent this pie is, I’ve brought along a taste-tester,” he says cheerfully into the camera. “Honey, you ready for a little taste of heaven?”

He lifts his fork, and Jack leans forward to chomp around it. He hasn’t had the pie in his mouth a full second before a look of utter bliss comes over his face, and he moans obscenely. Bitty thrills. It’s always fun to watch people react to his pies, and it’s doubly fun when it’s Jack.

“Bits, _God,”_ Jack says after he swallows. “I need some more of that.”

“Well. Usually a taste-tester only gets one taste, but I suppose in your case…” Bitty grabs another forkful and extends it toward Jack. This time, he’s watching as Jack closes his lips around the morsel. His brows knit together and his eyes roll back into his head, and the sound he makes… oh Lord, that sweet, low sound, that _never_ fails to undo Bitty. “Honey,” he murmurs. “If you keep moaning like that…”

“That pie though. _God.”_ Bitty’s seen Jack transported by a pie, but never like this.

“Let me have a taste,” he says, and climbs into Jack’s lap. Jack opens his mouth into the kiss, and oh, oh dear lord above, the strawberries and the chocolate and _Jack_ all mixing together on his tongue. Bitty’s the one moaning now, pressing forward as Jack’s arms go around him, and they kiss and kiss, sharing the tantalizing flavors, starting to feel the heat build between them.

Bitty digs his fingers into the pie – something he’d never do under normal circumstances – and brings them to Jack’s mouth. Jack licks and sucks the filling off his fingertips, moaning around each finger, biting at the soft pads of skin. Bitty shivers. Jack leans over him and mimics his movement, lifting fingertips coated with filling to Bitty’s lips for him to taste.

When Bitty nips at his fingers, licking around each one to glean every last bit of sweet strawberry-chocolate bliss, Jack murmurs something in French that is low and almost definitely dirty. Bitty lifts his gaze from Jack’s fingers to his face and sees dangerous purpose there. He answers it with a slow smile. “Suddenly I have so many interesting ideas ‘bout what to do with that pie,” he murmurs.

Jack kisses the impudent words off his lips. Bitty cranes his neck to invite more kisses, and in doing so, catches sight of his laptop, recording merrily away.

“Remind me to edit this,” he says, and lets it go on as Jack strips off his shirt and begins to kiss down his chest. Bitty throws his head back and moans, fingers carding into Jack’s hair. It’s not until Jack’s got him splayed out over the kitchen counter, naked and covered in sticky-sweet pie filling, that he finally regains the presence of mind to reach over and turn off the recording.

Long story short: that pie is ruined.

Bitty has to bake another one and redo a few of the vlog scenes before he has something ready to patch together. It takes him a week or so to get it all straightened out, and he finds himself in a hurry to release the vlog, which he’d promised to deliver a few days ago. He’ rushes to assemble all the pieces in Premiere. Opening sequence, opening chat, introduction to the recipe, taste test (he remembered to edit it, right? He’s pretty sure he did), shopping list, baking clips, presentation, closing comments. All put together: click “make movie,” aaaaand… upload.

It’s not until the whole thing is live on Youtube (and notifications have been sent to subscribers) that Bitty finally sits back to view his handiwork start-to-finish. It all seems to have come together well. After the opening sequence, he makes his first comments, then introduces the recipe – and Jack as a taste-tester. He expects he’s cut the scene right after Jack’s first moan – it’s supposed to cut to Bitty telling the camera, “See what I mean?” – but… oh.

Oh, no. Oh, dear. He did not edit this clip. 

He did not edit this clip _at all._

Bitty slams the delete button. 

_Are you sure you want to delete this video?_   Bitty nearly puts a fist through the screen. “What kind of a question is that OF COURSE I WANT TO DELETE IT, hurry up, hurry up… hurry up…!!!” The three or four seconds before the confirmation appears on screen are the longest of Bitty’s life.

“Video has been deleted,” the pop-up tells him. Bitty sighs, slumping forward in relief.

His relief is short-lived. Down below the screen, a number catches his eye. Number of Views. It’s ticked up to 6.

And that’s how a half-dozen strangers on the Internet saw Bitty and Jack’s “sex tape.” Who they were, Bitty will never know. At least, he hopes he’ll never know. Because if he ever meets one in person, he thinks he’ll probably lay down and die.


	29. while baking chocolate chip cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "the way you said i love you: while baking chocolate chip cookies."  
> The pairing was - surprise! - Ransom and Holster.

“…The fuck are you doing, Holtz?”

“Oh. Hey, man. Hey.”

“Hey nothing, you are a mess!”

“Look, it’s like this. Bitty’s at Jack’s for the weekend and we have a serious deficit of baked goods for consumption at the kegster. People have come to expect baked goods from Haus parties, and I can’t disappoint the masses!”

“So _you’re_ making… what _are_ you making?”

“Cookies!”

“Cookies?”

“Sure! How can you get cookies wrong? You just follow the recipe.”

“Holtz. There’s batter _everywhere_.”

“I, um, miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated? Miscalculated _what?”_

“When I should turn on the mixer. I guess you do it after the blades are already in the batter?”

“Holy fuck. OK, that’s it, I’m helping.”

* * *

“Holster that is a TABLESPOON.”

“Yeah? And?”

“And you’re supposed to put in a quarter of a teaspoon.”

“Of what? Are you sure?”

“Am I sure – look at the recipe, dude!”

“I’m looking, I’m… oh, wait a second, that’s the one after it. Man, the ingredient list is hard to read.”

“My heart can’t take this.”

* * *

“Dude stop stop STOP, you’re not supposed to use that many chocolate chips!”

“What’s wrong with extra chocolate chips? I like chocolate chips.”

“That’s like a half a bag extra!”

“And? I’m improvising.”

“You’re _improvising_.”

“Why not? Bitty does it all the time!”

“Yeah, bro, but he’s Bitty.”

“It doesn’t look so hard! He just puts in an extra teaspoon of this or that.”

“Or an extra half a bag of chips?”

“Like I said, I like chocolate chips!”

“…you know what, man? You do you.”

* * *

“OK, yeah, this does seem kind of hard to stir with all these extra chips.”

“*sigh* I’ll help you fish them out.”

* * *

“Wait, don’t we need to like, use a rolling pin?”

“What? No. They’re drop cookies.”

“They’re what?”

“Drop cookies. There’s two kinds of cookies. One you have to roll out the dough with a rolling pin and then cut out shapes. The other you just drop the batter onto the baking sheet.”

“Damn, Rans. You know a lot about making cookies.”

“…I know enough. Why? Is that a big surprise?”

“I’m not, like, shocked or anything, but yeah. It kind of is. You’re so good at so many things, man. It’s.. just really impressive.”

“Dude. You’re talking like we haven’t known each other two and a half years.”

“Well, that’s to your credit. You keep surprising me!”

“…The feeling is mutual.”

“Was that a chirp?”

“Just get these in the damn oven, Holtz.”

* * *

 

“Holy hell, look at them! Look at them, look at them! They’re beauts!”

“Shit, you’re right!”

“They’re beautiful and you’re beautiful!”

“No, you’re beautiful!”

“No, you!”

“Damn, Holtzy, you pulled them out!”

“Couldn’t have done it without you. I love you, man.”

“No, I love you!”

“I could freaking kiss you right now, Ransy.”

“Yeah, well, why don’t you?”

“I don’t know, why don’t I?”

“Yeah, why don’t you?”

* * *

“…Um.”

“Yeah. Um.”

“So. Is this gonna make things awkward?”

“It’s gonna be fine.”

“It is. Oh, shit. This is going to fuck things up, isn’t it?”

“Rans.”

“Shit, you were just going in for a peck and I… I fucked things up.”

“Rans. Rans. Look at me. Look at me.”

“…”

“Look at me. You with me, bro? Yeah? Good. Listen to me. Everything is gonna be fine.”

“But we…”

“I was into it. We were into it. It’s cool.”

“Yeah, but now we have to figure out what this means, like what are we now, what changes, do we stop wheeling chicks now, and are we…”

“Rans. Bro. Repeat after me. Everything is gonna be ‘swawesome.”

“…everything is gonna be ‘swawesome?”

“Yeah. Yeah, man, it is.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Maybe it is.”

“Sweet.”


	30. half the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompts: Nursey/Dex, the way you said I love you - as an apology, and also - in awe, the first time you realized it.

Nursey doesn’t even remember what they started fighting about. But it turned into something bigger, something about attitudes and relationships and how people talk to people. Then politics got involved, and they ended up taking potshots at each other. Dex accused Nursey of privilege. Nursey accused Dex of having no empathy. And then Dex came out with something so wrong-headed that Nursey was actually left aghast and speechless for a few seconds.

“You _know_ that’s not the way the world works, right?” Nursey said.

“Like hell it’s not.”.

“The world is more than your individual experience,” Nursey told him pointedly. “Maybe you’ve been too stuck in your small-town mentality to get that, but there’s a whole lot more out there. How can you go to Samwell and not get that? What the hell has your life been like?”

He didn’t think he’d said something that bad, but Dex stopped short and gaped at him.  Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and left.

And ever since, Nursey’s been lost.

They have to practice together. So they do. But Dex glares at him the whole time and won’t say a word. Apparently he won’t say a word to Chowder either, at least, not about this. “I asked him, I really did, but he said he didn’t want to talk about it!” Chowder tells Nursey, wringing his hands. Nursey’s not going to push him beyond that. Chowder plays middleman between them far too often as it is.

But he’s miserable. Surprisingly miserable, actually. He’s never really had to do without Dex before, and he never expected to be this affected by it. Dex is fun to have around, for sure, but without him things feel empty. Like he’s only getting half the world. He misses the other half.

It’s about a week of this before he comes across Dex, sitting alone on the stoop of his dorm, looking sour. Their eyes meet. Dex is wary as he watches. Nursey stands still, like an animal on alert for a predator.

A half-minute passes. Dex neither turns away nor says a word. Nursey dares to move. He comes to sit on the stoop next to Dex. Dex doesn’t get up to leave.

“Can we talk?” Nursey says carefully.

Dex doesn’t answer. He does catch Nursey’s gaze, a glance that says, _I’m willing to listen_.

“I don’t know what I did wrong, dude.” Nursey spreads his palms wide, looking down at them and then back up at Dex. “I don’t know what line I crossed. You gotta tell me so I don’t do it again.”

Dex clears his throat. It’s the most of his voice Nursey’s heard in a week. He pays very close attention.

“It’s not–” His voice is hoarse, and he coughs. “It’s not a line. It’s you, it’s how you think of me. Look, I know I come from a shit town, okay? I know I didn’t get a super worldly education or travel to Europe during high school or any of that stuff. It’s not like I’m proud of it. But I don’t see– it’s no reason to hate me.”

Nursey sucks in a breath. “I– I don’t hate you, Dex.”

“No. No, maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s worse. Maybe you pity me.” Dex scowls. “Maybe I’m some kind of goddamn charity case to you.”

“You think I…” Nursey can feel himself getting riled up, but he tamps down on it. “That’s not how I see you. That has never been how I see you.”

Dex peers at him. His eyes are slits, green beads buried in a sea of delicate eyelashes. “How do you see me, then? Huh, Nurse?”

Nursey has to pull himself away from contemplating those eyes. He gets so lost sometimes in the way Dex looks, the way he carries himself. He’s missed that, too, without knowing it. “As someone I care about,” he says slowly. “You think I’d get that riled up over someone I don’t care about?”

Dex gives a short laugh. “You care about me.”

“I do.” Something’s opening up inside Nursey right now, a revelation or a realization. He doesn’t have the words for it, not quite yet, but he will. In another moment, he will.

“Funny fucking way of showing it.”

And it’s Dex’s little smile there, the hint of warmth inside the bitterness, that brings the words to Nursey’s lips. Of course. Of course, that’s why he’s always been chasing that warmth inside Dex. Trying to pull it out, see it thrive. That’s why every last one of Dex’s expressions bring him a pleasure he can’t describe. They’re the simplest words in the world, and Nursey has trouble believing it’s taken him this long to find them.

“Look,” he says, “I don’t know how much this is gonna mean to you at this point, but… Truth is, I love you.”

Dex snorts. “Thanks.”

“I’m serious. I mean it. I love you.” Nursey reaches over and touches Dex’s hand. Dex turns to him, his expression full of question marks. The urge to kiss them off his cheeks runs through Nursey like a current of electricity, and he shivers. How’s he been so blind to this for so long? “I’m not just saying this, Will. Now that I’m thinking about it, I think I’ve been in love with you since frog year. You know me, man. You know I don’t get worked up, but I get worked up over you. Always have. You get to me, and I want – I just want you to see the things I see. I get frustrated when you don’t.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not seeing things,” Dex says. “It means I see them differently.”

“Yeah,” Nursey says. “Yeah, I get that. And you know what? That’s cool. Cause this week, without you? I feel like I’m only seeing half the world, man. I need you there. God, it sounds crappy, but you literally do complete me.” He makes a face. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“I’m having trouble believing you said it, too.” That flat, snide way of saying things. Nursey’s missed it so much, his heart is leaping in his chest. _Fuck,_ but he wants to kiss Dex right now. Just kiss him and have it all be over with. The urge is so strong, he almost misses the tear wobbling at the corner of Dex’s eye.

Almost.

“Shit,” Dex says, and wipes it away.

“Will?” Oh, fuck, has he hurt him again? Is this all going to start all over again? Nursey’s just laid himself bare. He’s raw and exposed and he couldn’t take it.

Dex shakes his head. “Shit, man. So you’re in love with me? Like, in a boyfriend way, in love?”

“Yeah.” Nursey swallows hard. “Yeah, I think so. Sorry if that’s weirding you out.”

The smile he gets is one he’s positive he’s never seen before. And then, stranger still, Dex takes his hand. Nursey’s mouth falls open.

“Why do you think I care so damn much about what you think of me?” Dex says.

Nursey’s still gaping when Dex leans in to kiss him.

Or _almost_ kiss him. He stops an inch from Nursey’s slack lips. “Close your damn mouth, Derek. I’m not sticking my tongue in there on the first go.”

“Oh. _Oh.”_ Nursey hurries to obey. Dex drifts a soft, feather-light kiss over his lips, pulls back, and smiles. Squeezes Nursey’s hand.

Nursey struggles for something to say. “So…. we’re good now?”

Dex nods, still smiling. Damn. Nursey could look at that smile forever.

Or he could kiss Dex again.

It’s a hard choice to make, but he decides on the latter.


	31. another part of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zimbits: the way you said i love you ... loud, so everyone else could hear.

The team’s got his back. Both sets of parents are behind them. All that’s left is… well, the rest of the world.

Jack wakes up the morning of the press conference with a spinning feeling in his stomach that could just as likely be excitement or dread. Logic would favor the latter, but Jack’s not so sure. He’s got reason to be excited today, too, if all goes according to plan.

Bitty wakes up, follows him to the shower. They spend long, sweet, intimate moments shampooing and soaping each other, pressing close together under the spray. “How are you feeling?” Bitty asks.

“Okay.”

“Ready?”

“I guess.”

They get dressed. Jack picks the jacket. Bitty finds a tie to match. Together, they look out the apartment window at the gleaming city.

“Do you need to go over it one more time?” Bitty prods him gently.

“No. No, I think I’ve got it.” Jack grabs Bitty’s hand and squeezes. “I’ve got this.”

“I’ll be right there the whole time.”

“And you’re okay?” Jack asks. “With me naming you?”

“Sweetheart. We’ve been through this.” Bitty pecks him on the lips and gives him the smile of an angel. “I’m proud to be with you, and I’m going to be proud to be named as your boyfriend. There’s nothing that could make me happier than to stand next to you in front of the whole world and say ‘Hell, yes, we’re in love!’”

Jack returns the smile. He really, really hopes that’s true.

* * *

All he wants to do is hold Bitty’s hand as the camera crews set up and the reporters file in. But no, not yet.  They look at each other instead, stolen glances. It sustains Jack to know these are the last he’ll have to steal. He looks over the room, sees the questioning looks on the faces of the press. They look at him with suspicion. He wonders if any of them know. If they look at the unfamiliar blond young man sitting on the dais and suspect. Not that it matters. It’ll all be in the open soon enough.

He glances at Georgia. She surveys the crowd, looks back at him, and nods. Jack swallows hard and says a prayer. Then he approaches the podium.

“Thank you all for coming today.”

The flashbulbs and the shutter clicks start up. Jack tries not to blink in the face of them. He looks down at his notecards.

“I’ve been very lucky, this past two years, to be a part of the Falconers.” He clears his throat. “Being a professional athlete is a strange life. You dedicate yourself to the sport, so you end up– you share a part of yourselves with the fans, and they… they support you. And I’m so grateful for the fans, and for their support over the past two seasons.

“So, um…” He looks down at his notes again. “I’m here to share something else. Another part of me.”

A low buzz of noise and activity rises up in the room. Now they’re guessing, Jack thinks. Right now, in this moment, so much is happening. Some are guessing right. Some still don’t have a clue. There are people out there holding their breath, waiting on what he has to say. His stomach turns. But he knows what he wants, and he knows he’s ready.

He turns to the side. “Eric?”

Bitty gets up. A thousand cameras shift their focus. He squints against the bright clamor of the flashbulbs, steps forward very carefully. Jack watches him, demure as he approaches the podium, long limbs and pale face. Every inch a man, every inch beautiful. But to this group, a stranger.

Jack turns back to the microphones. “I’d like you to meet Eric Bittle,” he says. “Some of you may already know him. We played hockey together back in college. He’s a solid guy, very friendly. He’s a great baker, makes the best pies I’ve ever had.

“He’s also my boyfriend.”

Now the buzz escalates to a full-on tumult. The whirrs and clicks of shutters become deafening. Jack reaches out; Bitty takes his hand. Jack waits, patiently, for it all to reach a peak and then start to die down. He lifts his free hand, trying to indicate a request for quiet, and leans toward the microphones.

“I know this is all very sudden,” he quips. An appreciative chuckle from the press answers him.

Jack angles his body so he can catch Bitty in his field of view, while still speaking to the microphones. “But it’s actually nothing new. Eric and I have been together for two years. Many of you are probably wondering how I hid this for so long. Well, you’re probably wondering a lot of things,” he adds, off-the-cuff. Bitty grins, beaming at him. “And there will be answers. I’ll be as honest as I can. For now, I want all of you to know – this is who I am. I’m still the same Jack Zimmermann. I still love hockey, and I’m still proud to play for the Falconers.

“But I’m also proud to stand here, and say to Eric–” He turns further. Looks Bitty in the eyes. Bitty stares back, his eyes going wide and round. Jack can hear him despite his silence – _Honey, this is not in the script!_

He takes Bitty’s other hand. “To say to _you,”_ he corrects, “Eric, I love you. I’ve loved you for two years, and I’m not going to stop. Ever. For anything.

“And I want to ask you a question.”

Bitty’s hands slip out of Jack’s and fly to his face. The shutters are still clicking, but a hush has fallen over the room. Nobody’s whispering or commenting. Everybody’s waiting.

Jack drops to one knee.


	32. fear of heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt was to have SMH including Shitty and Jack go to an amusement park, with some Zimbits. mostly it's just some dumb vignettes.  
> Also, this is really long. Like, could probably be posted by itself long. But I'm not proud enough of it to post it on its own.

_Canobie Lake Park is a real place (I’ve been there!) But I’m making up some attractions (most of them) (all of them) because storytelling._

It takes three cars and an hour and a half drive to get up there. Everyone’s a little claustrophobic and cranky by the time they arrive. But when Shitty climbs out of the car, grabs the megaphone, and hollers “WELCOME TO THE OFFICIAL SAMWELL MEN’S HOCKEY TEAM ANNUAL RETREAT TO CANOBIE LAKE PARK - LET’S RIDE SOME FUCKING RIDES!” it’s like a shot in the arm. All at once there’s grinning and high-fiving and “‘swawesome”s up the wazoo.

This is Shitty’s last retreat. He’s damn determined to have a kick-ass day, start to finish. After this, it’s gonna be all craptastic law school cocktail parties, or whatever Harvard people do for fun. It’s not something he’s looking forward to, as much as he knows going to Harvard is the Right Thing to Do. He’s just having a little trouble with the fact that the season’s over, graduation’s right around the corner, and fucking _everything_ is about to change forever.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, and plays hard enough, he can make this one day last a million years.

* * *

A roller coaster’s swooping curve lurches out from behind the park’s walls like a captive dinosaur. Bitty looks up with no small amount of trepidation. It looks…. well, he guesses “fun” is one word for it.

It’s not that he’s afraid of the roller coaster, not really. It’s just… aside from the plane on the way up to Boston, he hasn’t really done a lot of heights in his life. Just the thought of them makes his heart pound in a way he can’t quite define yet. He supposes he won’t know what it means until he’s there.

And then, as they walk through the gates, his eyes land on the Ferris wheel and okay, yes, maybe that’s a little bit of terror.

“Scared of heights, eh, Bittle?”

Jack pats him on the head as he passes. Bitty gets defensive on reflex. “I am most definitely not,” he blurts. Jack just looks over his shoulder and smiles. Crap. He might as well sit back, relax, and enjoy the chirping that is sure to ensue.

* * *

“History first,” Shitty announces. “Everyone must ride the carousel.”

They pile onto the ancient thing, too many pounds of muscle on rickety wood, and the structure creaks as though it’s going to give out. But it holds firm, and everyone gets to the extremely serious business of choosing what kind of creature they’ll mount for the ride.

Ransom and Holster try to get on the same horse. They last about two seconds before an employee yells at them; they settle onto adjoining black and white horses, grumbling as though all the fun has gone out of their day. Lardo climbs onto a silver horse and sits sidesaddle, running her finger over the painted bridle. “Hm,” she says, as though she’s at a museum.

Jack stands between the horses, camera out. He snaps a picture of Shitty and Bitty, relaxing in one of the carriage seats. He shoots Dex, frowning at his brown horse, and Nursey, caressing his red one. Chowder shouts from the back, “Look at this tiny little pony! I’ve named him Joe!” Jack stifles a laugh and takes a picture.

The organ music pipes up and the carousel goes round. Jack captures the vibrant paint of the ponies, the smiles on everyone’s faces. His lens keeps returning to Bitty, having a very serious discussion with Shitty as they sit together. There’s something so interesting about the knit of Bitty’s eyebrows, the way his lips purse when he makes a point. Even when Jack walks around the horses to get a shot of Ransom and Holster sharing a high-five and laughing hysterically, Bitty’s in the background. Jack tries to adjust the shot to exclude him, but the angle isn’t as good. And now the high-five is over, anyway.

* * *

“All right, enough history, now some speed.” Shitty is, as always, master of ceremonies, and everyone’s following his lead. They follow him now into a line for one of the coasters, not the big one they saw looming over them at the entrance but another one. It’s got corkscrew turns and a gaudily painted wooden monster on its sign. Bitty looks up at it with undisguised terror.

“Front seat,” Holster and Ransom declare in unison, then fist-bump each other for their ‘swawesome unison. Nobody objects as they clamber into the first available seats. Behind them, Shitty climbs in next to Jack. Then Dex and Nursey, glaring daggers the whole time – possibly as an extension of their roadie protocol of sitting together despite any bad blood. Then Chowder, who gestures excitedly to a hesitating Bitty.

“Come on, Bitty! This coaster looks great! Hey, are you scared? Don’t be scared. It’s fun!”

Terrified or no, Bitty can’t say no to his sweet baby Chowder. He sighs, offers up a prayer, and steps into the seat. The bar closes over his hips with a low thudding sound, like the crack of doom. Oh, Lord.

The next two and a half minutes are sheer terror.

The car is slowing and sliding back into the gate when Bitty’s brain goes back online. His head is pounding, and when he turns to get out Dex glances at him and says, “Shit, Bitty, you’re green.” Bitty just nods woozily. Maybe he’ll sit out the next coaster. Even though Chowder’s already clamoring in the background for another ride.

* * *

“Yo, we should split up for a while,” Ransom says gaily as they wander through the park. “Check out the park, meet back for lunch. What do you think?”

Jack, walking with his hands in his pockets next to Shitty, leans in. “I think I know why he’s so keen to take off.” He nods toward the water park area, where a not inconsiderable number of girls in bikinis are squealing and splashing each other like they’re in a porno.

“And check that out,” Shitty chimes in, nodding in the other direction. A big fat red sign sits at the entrance to a ride. _Tunnel of Love,_ it reads in clumsily painted cursive.

“Those still exist?” Jack gives a little sigh.

“Boys will be boys,” Shitty says. “Which is normally a phrase I can’t fucking stand, but in the case of those two, well–”

“And there they go.” Jack nods at Ransom and Holster, who are striding toward the water park area with big grins on their faces. “Guess we’ll meet back at 1. Where are you thinking of going?”

“I dunno, brah.” Shitty folds his hands behind his head. “Maybe I’ll follow Lards around for a bit. Why don’t you take care of Bits. He still looks like he’s going to faint.”

“Heh.” It’s true. Bitty’s standing in the middle of the walkway, looking up at the rides, the color washed out of his face. As Dex and Nursey walk off, having a spirited discussion that for once doesn’t look like an argument, and as Chowder chatters Lardo’s head off, he decides. If he can get Bitty over one of his fears, surely he can help him get over another. Smiling, he walks over.

“Where to, Bittle?”

Bitty looks around, giving a little surprised “oh” ahs he sees Jack. “Oh, are we–”

“We’re splitting up for a while,” Jack says, although he’s fairly sure Bitty heard Ransom earlier. “So where did you want to go?”

Bitty’s eyes dart up and down the length of his body, as though he’s not quite sure Jack’s real. Then he breaks into a grin. “Well! Normally I’d say let’s go and see what they think they’re serving here, but I’m pretty sure it’s two hundred percent junk and I’m still a little green from that roller coaster. Heavens! People do that for fun? I couldn’t even pretend to understand, and…”

“Bittle. How about that one?”

Jack points toward a ride called the Flyer. Parkgoers are strapped into individual swings, then propelled into the air by a giant spinning contraption. It looks tame to Jack as far as park rides go, but Bitty appears to be searching desperately for something to hide behind. He settles on Jack, darting behind him and grabbing the back of his shirt. “Are you for serious?”

“It’ll be fun,” Jack asserts, and heads for the ride. Bitty follows along, wringing his hands the whole way.

* * *

“Yo, Dex, over here.”

There are ten thousand Nurseys taunting him. And several copies of himself looking increasingly vexed. Dex fumes. Fuck mirrors, windows, and planes of glass in general. And fuck Nursey most of all.Every last Nursey in his line of vision.

Dex starts to examine each copy carefully. It shouldn’t be difficult to suss out the real thing. People put their grubby mitts on these mirrors all day long. Some of the Nurseys are smudged almost beyond recognition. And Nursey’s got body heat, and scent, and all that – not that Dex is a werewolf or anything, but he should at least be able to tell an image from the real thing, right?

“C’mon, dude, you’re taking mad long.”

And the voice – the voice is definitely coming from over there. Dex scans the dozen Nurseys that are standing in that direction. It has to be that one, the third from the left. It looks just a little realer than the rest… he thinks… never mind his eyes are tired from examining the panes of glass… no, he’s sure. Reasonably sure. He builds up a head of steam and heads over to grab the real Nursey by the wrist.

He smacks his hand against a mirror. Of course.

* * *

“You know I’m not one to generally praise the corporate establishment,” Shitty tells Lardo as they relax on their ride. “But the nice thing about this park is, there’s not some arbitrary age limitation. You can go on any cutesy ride you want, and it doesn’t matter if you’re 12 or 24. The height restriction at other parks is bullshit.“

“Maybe you shouldn’t say ‘bullshit’ on a kiddy ride,” Lardo suggests. Her arms are folded over her chest and she’s watching the other cars as they slide up and down gentle little hills and soft curves on the track. Around them, cartoon animals wave and foam rubber plants sway in the breeze.

“Hey,” Shitty reminds her, “don’t get me started on the artificial stratification of language into acceptable and unacceptable constructions. Anyway, it’s not a kiddie ride. We’re all three of us adults, and nobody stopped us.”

In front of them, Chowder laughs and waves. “I’m riding a shark!”

Lardo sighs. “Yeah, sorry,” she says, “it’s a kiddy ride.”

* * *

Christy and Maureen giggle all the way from the swim area to the Tunnel of Love line. Ransom and Holster tell them all about the travails of hockey life as they wait behind a dozen other couples to get into their gondolas. Christy’s Ransom’s type – loud, effusive, very blonde – and quieter Maureen has taken a shine to Holster. Holster slides an arm around her as they (finally) approach the head of the line.

The attendant takes one look at them and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says in the squeaky voice of an adolescent trapped in a summer job. “You have to wear clothes on the ride. No swimsuits.”

“What? Are you serious?” Christy looks about ready to get in a fistfight. Maureen just slumps and pouts.

“Hey, now, look, that’s some form of discrimination,” Holster starts.

“It’s policy, sir. I don’t make the rules,” squeaks the attendant.

Christy and Maureen slip out of line. “Too bad! Come swimming with us later, okay?” And then they’re gone, running back to the water park and giggling the whole way.

Ransom and Holster look at each other.

“We didn’t bring any bathing suits,” Ransom says.

“We could take them to lunch later?” Holster suggests.

“Are you two getting on the ride or aren’t you?”

They turn to the attendant, then to each other. “Well,” Ransom says. “We did stand in line all this time.”

“It’ll be the Tunnel of Platonic Bro Friendship,” Holster says. “Will you do me the honors?”

Ransom grins and climbs into the gondola. “I’mma hold your hand when we get to the dark part,” he says slyly.

Holster sits down beside him. “I’ll kick your ass if you don’t.”

* * *

Bitty actually seems to enjoy the Flyer well enough. He’s nervous as they strap him in, but once the machine starts up and they leave the ground, he takes in a breath, then lets out a laugh. Jack glances at him. Pale dots of color have risen in his cheeks, and he’s smiling, his eyes dancing as he watches the park beneath them. Something about his expression makes Jack’s breath catch in his throat. He watches until Bitty’s noticed he’s looking. Bitty’s eyes fly to his, questioning. Jack deliberately looks away.

Afterward, Bitty stumbles as he descends the steps to exit the ride. He reaches out. Jack catches his wrist in one hand. Bitty looks up, gratitude in his eyes.

“How was that?” Jack asks.

“You know something? It was fun!” Bitty grins at him. “I don’t know just what I was expecting, but it was a hoot! I had half a notion I was going to lose a shoe, though. I kept praying the laces didn’t come loose. Can you imagine, one of my shoes coming off and falling on someone’s head? I’d be so embarrassed…”

Jack weathers the babble with a smile on his face. When was it, he wonders idly, that the stream of chatter emanating from one Eric Bittle became a comfort to him? He remembers, some time ago, being horribly annoyed by it. “Good,” he says when he can get a word in edgewise. “Then we’ll hit the Ferris wheel after lunch.”

“The Ferris wheel…” Bitty pauses, turns, and looks up at it. It towers above the treetops, the walls to the park, even the roller coaster that had made him stare in wonder earlier. Jack thinks he sees a flicker of fear in Bitty’s eyes. Or maybe that’s just the reflection of the clouds, passing silver-white in a sea of deep brown.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, some awkward attempt at comfort.

“I’ll be…” Bitty snaps out of whatever reverie he’d been lost in. “Mr. Zimmermann, I _told_ you I’m not afraid of heights!”

“You’ll have no problem with the Ferris wheel, then,” Jack says with a crooked smile.

Outrage pinks Bitty’s cheeks. “Well, of _course_ I won’t! What are you thinking? You haven’t decided today’s some kind of… clinic, have you? Can’t a boy just have fun anymore? Lord, Jack, you’re such a menace sometimes…”

He walks ahead, hands on his hips, grumbling. Jack can’t help his grin as he follows.

* * *

As they gather around a picnic table for a typical greasy amusement park lunch, Shitty surveys his troops. Bitty and Jack seem to be in relatively good spirits, though both are clearly dismayed at the quality of their food. Chowder has rejoined Dex and Nursey, who are not bickering but sort of glaring. At one point Nursey reaches over and rubs something off Dex’s nose. Dex pinks.

Shitty’s not sure where he should go next. He grew up visiting this park, and all the rides are old hat for him. There’s nowhere in particular he’s dying to revisit, so it’s solely a matter of whom to tag along with. Ransom and Holster are already talking about returning to the water park to rejoin the girls they picked up earlier. Shitty doesn’t want to interrupt their game. Nor does he think Bitty and Jack would appreciate his interference… there’s something going on between those two that even Shitty doesn’t much want to get in the way of. And the frogs… well. He and Lardo spent the morning with Chowder, and that was… exhausting.

“Hey guys, guys, guys,” Chowder is saying to Dex and Nursey, “after lunch let’s go and try to win some prizes.”

Dex gives him the side eye. “You know all those games are rigged, right?”

“They’re not rigged,” Nursey says, popping a French fry into his mouth. “They’re just really hard.”

“They’re _impossible.”_

“They’re actually not.”

Dex folds his arms over his chest. “All right,” he says, “prove it. Win something.”

Nursey shrugs. “‘Kay.”

Chowder looks at him like he’s hung the moon. Shitty watches the three of them. Yeah, he’s not going to bother them.

Lardo slides into the seat next to him with a freshly full cup of soda. “Sup,” she says, bumping his arm with her shoulder. “Where you gonna go next?”

“Not sure,” Shitty says, scratching his head. “What were you going to do?”

“Honestly? Thought I’d go find a park bench and sketch for a bit.” Lardo shrugs.

“Oh, cool, brah.” Shitty pauses. “Mind if I come with?”

Lardo takes a moment, looks up at him. “You want to?”

“Will I fuck up your vibe?” She shakes her head. “Then sure.”

He’s got no right to be as happy as he is when she says, “K, cool,” and sucks on her soda. Of course he can come along. Why would she say anything else? But there’s something about the way they’ve all paired off on this trip that makes it feel significant. Like it’s an event, instead of Shitty and Lardo just being Shitty and Lardo, as always. Maybe it’s the approaching graduation. It’s making time feel just that much more significant. Gotta get those moments in while he can.

He wonders if Jack’s feeling the same way. If time is slipping away from him the way it is from Shitty, too fast and too soon. He glances over to see Jack getting up to throw out his remaining food and return the tray. “So,” Jack says, glancing over his shoulder, “up for more, Bittle?”

Bitty frowns. “No roller coasters.”

“I promise.” Jack is smiling at the back of Bitty’s head now, and Shitty feels it again – this sense that something significant is happening here. It shouldn’t be that way. They’re at a crappy amusement park, for crying out loud. But time. Time is so precious lately. He wishes to hell he could light up in the park, because he’s starting to get in one of those moods when weed seems like the only logical answer.

“Yo, Shits,” Lardo says, touching Shitty’s hand.

“Hm?” He turns.

She shoots him a smile. “It’s cool,” she says.

And somehow that’s enough. “Yeah, man,” he says. “Yeah. Let’s go draw some shit.”

* * *

Christy and Maureen have vanished. Ransom and Holster do a thorough walkaround of the swim area just to be sure, but there’s no sign of them. At last, at the edge of the wave pool and halfway between the tube ride and the waterslides, they settle with twin groans onto a bench.

“Womp, womp.” Holster sings the sad trombone.

“Okay, man.” Ransom’s already in planning mode. “No problem. No big. There’s plenty of other ladies around.”

“I liked her,” Holster says. Ransom shoots him a look. “What? I did. She was cute.”

“Dude.  You were never gonna see her again anyway.”’

“You don’t know that!” Holster glowers at him. “She could have been local. I could have invited her to the end-of-year kegster. It could have been a thing.”

“You spoke two words to her.” Ransom sighs. “All right, never mind. I probably shouldn’t be wheeling chicks anyway.”

“March’d kill you, huh?”

“Shut up. It’s not like that with her.”

They stare at each other for a minute. Then Holster gives a crooked grin, and somehow Ransom’s grinning back, and then the two of them are laughing.

“Listen to us,” Holster says between fits of laughter. “Getting all freaking depressed over a couple of ladies.”

“Dude, right?” Ransom wipes his eyes. “This is our fucking retreat. We should be cutting loose and enjoying ourselves, not running ourselves ragged.”

“Fuck, yeah.” Holster gets to his feet and stretches. “Let’s go and have some fucking fun. Flume?” He nods at the log ride, a few yards away. The scream and splash of another log crashing down the slope carries on the air.

“Shit. Yes. Let’s do it.” Ransom leaps up and pats Holster on the back. “This, here, man? This is what matters. Future captain bonding time.”

“Right? Exactly! We have to nurture our bond so we can present a united front next year. And I can’t think of a better way than facing a fifty-foot drop and getting fucking soaked together.”

“Yeah, man. This here is what really matters. You and me.” Ransom is glowing as he grins at Holster. “Let’s go get wet.”

“‘Swawesome.”

* * *

Lardo enjoys the pattern of the cross-hatching that supports the roller coaster. There’s something about the contrast between the sharp regularity of the squares and the sweeping curve of the track that she finds fascinating. She draws it  from several angles, walking up to look at it from below, sitting back on the bench to get it from a distance. She wonders if she can replicate it using, maybe, some wire fencing and rubber from tires. It’d be a cool piece.

Beside her on the bench, Shitty is silent. He’s just sitting, arms folded behind his head, and soaking up the sun. He doesn’t look over her shoulder at her sketches, he doesn’t engage her in conversation. He just… _is_ …  and that seems to be enough for him for now. Lardo half-smiles. Good for Shits. Everybody’s got to find their Zen once in a while. Makes sense that Shitty would find his here, surrounded by people running around and eating cotton candy and screaming on roller coasters. Shitty’s so fucking Chaotic Neutral sometimes.

And he’s gonna be gone next year. She’s gonna be in his room, where she’s spent so much time just hanging and talking, but he’s not gonna be there for her to talk to. It’s gonna be so weird. Awesome, because the Haus is her home already before she’s even moved in, but weird. She shoots him a look out of the corner of her eye, wonders if he ever thinks about it, too.

“So Shits,” she says, and he starts. “You gonna come down and visit next year?”

He looks at her a moment, as though the question’s hit him sideways. Then he laughs. “What kind of question is that,” he deadpans. “I’m gonna be down weekly for room inspections. Make sure you’re keeping the place in good order. That’s my room, you know.”

“That’s your soon-to-be ex-room,” she corrects. “Get used to it.”

“Once my room, always my room,” says Shitty. “I marked my territory.”

“Gross.” She slaps him lightly on the arm. “But no, I was thinking, like… my shows and things. Hope you can make it down for them.”

“Lards.” Shitty draws back. “You wound me. I’m gonna be down for a fucking week beforehand, helping you put glitter on a refrigerator or whatever.”

“Ass. Don’t make fun of my art.” She hopes her tone is caustic enough that Shitty won’t be able to tell her heart leaped at the notion. Putting together a piece for a show without Shitty there helping out is one of the things she is least looking forward to in her senior year. To have him come down to help, even if just for a day – it would mean so much to her she doesn’t even know how to say it.

“Who’s making fun?” Shitty grins at her. “Come on. You’re gonna finally get to use Bitty’s oven in a piece, right? Make it a whole exhibit. Blinged-up kitchen appliances. We’ll find a kitchen sink and paint it neon green. Tell me that’s not your aesthetic.”

“I hate you, Shits,” she says, jostling him. She’s smiling now despite herself.

He slings an arm around her and squeezes. “Aw. You say that but you don’t mean it.”

“No.” She sighs and leans against him. “No, I really don’t.”

* * *

Dex sees it hanging from the wall of a shooting gallery game – a plush unicorn, pink and silver, with soft tufts of string for mane and tail. His mind immediately goes to Lila, and her notebooks full of unicorn pictures. God, she’d love that. He can see her face now – eyes  lighting up at the sight of it.

“Hold up,” he says, and Nursey and Chowder stop. “I’m gonna play this one.”

“Thought you said they were all rigged,” Nursey says slyly.

“Yeah, but I gotta at least try and win that unicorn for my sister.” Dex hands over his money and gets a pellet gun from the attendant. Maybe Nursey’s right. Maybe the game isn’t rigged. If he can shoot a puck from center ice into a net, he has to be able to shoot a duck bobbing by on a conveyor belt, right?

Wrong. He makes a fool of himself, hits everything but the damn ducks, and puts the gun down with a curse. The attendant cheerfully wishes him better luck next time, and he starts to walk away.

“Dex. Yo.” Nursey stops him with a hand on his arm. “You wanted that for your sister, right?”

“It was just a thought. Forget it.” Dex is a little mad at himself. Not for playing and losing, but for having a moment where he thought maybe he had a chance. He feels like he’s blown his cover, and that’s way worse than missing a duck.

“I’ll win it for you,” Nursey says.

Dex goggles at him a moment. Then he finds his words. “You’ll win it for me? You? You’ve never even held a gun.”

Nursey’s eyes darken. “The things you don’t know about me, William Poindexter, could fill a book.” For an instant, Dex is almost intimidated by the low voice, the look in those eyes.

He gets his bearings back. “All right, Nurse,” he says, “show me what you’ve got.”

Nursey forks over his money and takes the gun in hand. For a moment he handles it awkwardly, like he’s not quite sure which hand goes where. Dex actually feels a little bad for him. This is going to be as humiliating for Nursey as it was for Dex himself. As much as he likes taking the piss out of Nursey, there’s no joy in watching him fail.

_BANG._

A plastic duck topples under the cardboard water. Dex stares at the space where it was, then over at Nursey. His shoulders are squared and his hands are outstretched around the gun. Unsmiling, unflinching, he shuffles his feet against the pavement, finds a firm stance, and pulls the trigger.

_BANG._ Another duck goes down. A few passersby stop and applaud. Nursey rolls his shoulders back, looks up at that unicorn on the wall, then aims and squeezes the trigger one more time.

A third bang, a third duck goes down. Now there’s a small crowd applauding. Nursey ignores them, leans over the counter, and points at the unicorn. The attendant grabs a hooked pole to pull it down from the wall.

“There you go,” Nursey says, plopping the unicorn into Dex’s outstretched hands. Dex tries as hard as he can to be outraged. Damn it, why can’t Nursey lord it over him just a little? That he’d know how to deal with. The simple smile on Nursey’s face is a lot harder to handle.

He clutches the unicorn under his arm, clears his throat, and coughs. “Thanks, Nurse,” he says quietly.

Nursey just shrugs and smiles wider. “Sure.”

“That was awesome!” Chowder slings an arm around Nursey and squeezes. “That was so sweet, Nursey! Can you win me something next?”

“Sorry, C.,” Nursey tells him with a smirk. “You wanna win something, you gotta do it yourself.”

Chowder pouts and complains about it not being fair. Dex doesn’t really know what to do with himself. He’s fidgety and unsettled. It’s not like he doesn’t know Nurse can be nice. They actually get along pretty decently most of the time these days. But there’s something about Nurse doing that for him – and then refusing to do it for Chowder – that makes Dex feel like his freckles are jumping from place to place on his skin.

He decides not to think about it too much. All three of them sit down at the next booth, for one of those multiplayer squirt gun races. Chowder mops the floor with both of them.

* * *

Bitty clutches the side of the car as the Ferris Wheel begins to move. It’s slow at first, a great old dinosaur waking from sleep. The carriage they’re riding in is enclosed, thank goodness. If it had been something open, like that Flyer swing he’d been in earlier, he probably would be passed out by now.

But this. This is… kind of nice. Kind of fun.

A smile slips onto his face, and he glances at Jack. Lord knows what Jack thinks he’s doing, following Bitty around like a puppy dog all day long. He thinks he’s going to cure Bitty of his so-called fear of heights, or something like that. Well, let him think that. All that matters to Bitty is that he gets to spend some time with Jack. The hours are ticking away and graduation is inching ever closer, and every time Bitty thinks about it his heart clenches painfully in his chest. So any excuse to be with him, Bitty will take.

The carriage continues to float upwards, and if Bitty ignores the creaking of the metal (does it have to sound as though it’s going to fall apart any minute?) he can concentrate on the park below him, the people and trees and walkways shrinking. “Everyone’s so small,” he says, leaning against the window. Across from him, Jack says nothing. “I mean, well, of course they’re small, how else would they look? But it’s always sort of startling. To see everyone turn into little doll-sized people all of a sudden.”

Jack still says nothing. At this point, Bitty expects at least a chirp for saying too much. But instead, Jack seems content to look out the window, gaze flickering to Bitty on occasion, quiet. His expression is… what? Content? Impassive? Bitty’s not sure. But if Jack doesn’t mind, Bitty still has so much more he wants to say. As the Ferris wheel continues to lift him, the words rise as naturally as air.

“You know, I always enjoy taking off. The airplane, I mean, on my way up to Boston. ‘Course, that’s halfway because I’m coming home to y’all and Samwell. But there’s something so interesting about watching everything get so small.” That big tree they were under is so little now. Bitty smiles at it. “First the people get small, then the cars, then the trees, then the buildings… and then all at once it’s all flat, like a quilt. But for just that little bit of time, nothing’s flat, but everything’s just small. And I feel… well, I don’t feel big, exactly. But different. Above everything. Like everything’s dolls and I’m the only thing that’s real.”

Jack sits forward. He’s watching Bitty carefully now, brows pulled tight together high above the bridge of his nose. Bitty doesn’t know what to do with that look. Suddenly he‘s got to explain himself. “That’s why I said, I’m not afraid of heights,” he insists. “I just don’t know how I feel about them. I think… I think I love them, actually.”

“But not roller coasters. I definitely don’t like those.” He laughs. “I’m like a cat. I like to go up, but I hate coming down.”

“Me, too,” Jack says abruptly. Bitty looks at him, and just for a minute, he’s lost in looking.

Then he starts. “Oh, we’re at the top!” He gets up and plasters his face against the window. “Wow. Just wow, this is amazing! I think I can see mountains. Are those the Berkshires? I’ve never been out that way. Can you see the ocean on the other side? Let me look–”

The carriage swings. Bitty loses his balance and falls onto the seat.

Next to Jack. Who’s gotten up from his own seat and turned to sit next to Bitty.

Bitty blinks at him. “Jack? Why did you switch seats? Now we’re all off balance. Look, we’re tilting–”

“Bittle.” Jack’s voice is oddly quiet. He lifts a finger and presses it to Bitty’s lips.

Bitty’s still blinking and trying to process that motion when Jack leans in, light and quick, and kisses him.

His hand glides to Bitty’s jaw and cups the curve of it, gentle. Bitty stiffens, spine and limbs going rigid. What the… how… but… _oh_.

Oh.

Jack kisses him again. Longer, this time. His fingers are so soft on Bitty’s jaw. Does Bitty dare hope – but he has to, his heart is in his throat and happiness is welling up in his chest like a flood. He presses forward, kisses back, lips slipping open against the warmth of Jack’s mouth. He reaches out, touches Jack’s chest, slides his hand up to Jack’s shoulder. Holds fast there. The world is all below them, a dollhouse world, and they’re all that’s real. Them, and the carriage, and the sky.

When their lips part, Bitty’s holding on to Jack with both hands. Jack’s one palm has drifted to the back of Bitty’s neck. His other hand is steady and warm on Bitty’s arm. They look at each other. Jack’s eyes are so wide, so dark. Bitty can see himself reflected in Jack’s pupils. The last time Jack looked at him like this, he had to explain himself. So he tries, he tries again. “Jack,” he says. “Jack, I didn’t–”

“I– I didn’t, either.” Jack’s voice is thick, soft, like syrup. “But you– I only–”

“Oh, my goodness.” Bitty lets go of Jack and lays both hands over his heart. “Oh, my goodness.”

And then the Ferris wheel lurches into motion, and Bitty grabs Jack again, this time out of sheer terror.

Jack laughs. He slides an arm tight around Bitty’s shoulders. “I’ve got you,” he says.

Bitty shakes his head, trying to control his breathing. He touches Jack’s hand on his shoulder, glances up. Jack’s expression is softer than he’s ever seen it. His heart twinges with joy.

“Why, yes, Mr. Zimmermann,” he murmurs, “I believe you do.”

He dares to lay a hand on Jack’s knee. Pressed together on the narrow seat, they descend.

* * *

There’s a strange air that falls over the team as they regroup to exit the park and head home. Everyone’s quieter –  tired from a day full of rides and games, Shitty figures. Dex is looking more pleased than Shitty’s ever seen him, as he totes a stuffed animal and walks alongside his fellow frogs. Bitty and Jack are trading smiles, but not speaking. Only Ransom and Holster seem to be their usual gregarious selves – but even they are doing a little more grinning, and a little less shouting, than usual.

And next to Shitty, Lardo is reserved, but there’s a tinge of color in her cheeks that wasn’t there earlier today. Shitty knows that if he asks about it, that pleasant flush will disappear and she’ll walk ahead of him, nose turned up. So he stays quiet and just looks at her, enjoying the wobbling feeling in his heart. It’s funny, that feeling, but it’s kind of cool. He doesn’t mind it.

He turns around, calls to his gang. “Everyone have a good time?”

He expects a roar of assent, but what he gets instead is a row of smiles.

And maybe that’s okay, too. As long as everybody had fun. Maybe the way they express that is just changing, as they all get a little older and the day gets a little longer. It’s been a depressing thought, and Shitty’s avoided it, even as he’s made his preparations to leave Samwell behind and head for Harvard. But just for now, frozen in this late-day moment, growing a little seems to be mostly a good thing.

“Way to go, brahs,” he murmurs, and leaves it at that.


	33. a birthday present (or two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a very kinky prompt was given to me, so i wrote a very kinky fic. Decidedly NSFW.

“Are you sure you want a costume party?” they kept asking him. But Bitty knew what he wanted. He wanted to have fun his first day of getting legally drunk. And ain’t no costume party like a Haus costume party.

So here they are, all decked out and having fun. Rans and Holster have arranged the whole thing. They’ve kept it small – SMH and a few other good, trusted friends only. It’s loud, but not _that_ loud. Which is why Bitty’s surprised when Ransom and Holster suddenly corner him in the den with panicked faces and say, “Shit, Bitty! The cops are here!”

“The what?” Bitty looks around. They’re not even being particularly loud. Why the hell would there be cops outside?

“You’ve gotta do something. Come on, you can sweet-talk the police. Just go to the front door and talk to them for us. C’mon!”

“Why do I have to– now, listen here, it’s my birthday, I have– _boys_!” And somehow they’ve disappeared. Bitty grumbles his way to the front door, already preparing his speech – “why, _yes_ , officer, there’s a reason I’m dressed as a French maid, and yes, I know I look about 16, but I…”

His brain and the rest of him come to a screeching halt.

The “cop” in the doorway, is leaning jauntily against the doorframe, a slight smile playing across his face. Silver handcuffs glitter at his waist. In his other hand, he holds a prettily wrapped box. “So,” he says, “I’m told this is your 21st birthday party, am I right?”

“Not only right,” Bitty murmurs, “you’re invited.” He reaches out and pulls Jack close; they kiss, hot and full, as his friends whoop in the background. Looking up at Jack through half-lidded eyes, Bitty grins. “You look so good I just want to drag you upstairs right now.”

“Later,” Jack says, passing his fingers over Bitty’s lips and trailing them down to his jaw. “I should at least say hello to everybody.”

They make the rounds. Bitty follows Jack around with a red face and a dazed expression. He hasn’t even drunk all that much, but he’s dizzy as anything. Every time he takes a look at those handcuffs all his blood rushes south. Lord, but he wouldn’t mind being arrested by Officer Zimmermann.

The scenarios wheel through his brain. Up against a wall, hands behind his back. Chained to the bed, one arm free to pull Jack close. Sitting on his desk chair, wrists cuffed together, Jack kneeling in front of him, the cuffs clinking as he runs his joined hands through Jack’s hair…

Bitty’s dizzy with it. He goes to the kitchen for a glass of water. It may do nothing to calm him down at this rate, but at least he’ll be hydrated as he burns alive.

Lardo catches him on the way back out. “You two should go upstairs,” she says, casual as anything, half-looking at her phone as she speaks.

Bitty swallows the Mothra-sized lump in his throat. “Wh-what?”

“You two should go upstairs now,” she replies coolly. “While the party’s still raging down here. Then you don’t have to worry about people coming by, and we’ll make enough noise that you two can enjoy yourselves without holding back. I’m just saying.”

“B-b-but.” Bitty might be red enough to pass as one of Dex’s lobsters. “But it’s a party for _me_.”

“Ff. Go. Hurry up. I’ll send Jack after you in a minute.”Lardo motions furtively to the stairs. Bitty looks around – okay, it’s true, no one is really paying much attention to him – then ducks past her and heads upstairs to his room.

He sits on his bed, looks up at the ceiling, and counts the cracks. He already knows there are 17, but it’s comforting, steadying to enumerate each one. It’s either that or let the fantasies overwhelm him. Jack, dressed as a police officer. With cuffs. Dear Lord. He hasn’t drunk nearly enough to handle this.

A minute later, Jack appears in the doorway. All of Bitty’s calm evaporates in a second.

Oh, Lord, the way he _looks_ , framed by the soft light of the hallway. The blue shirt hanging off him just so, making him look huge and imposing and devastatingly sexy. And the gleam of those damn handcuffs. Bitty’s pulse is speeding in his throat. He murmurs, hoarse, “Come in.”

Jack does. The door closes behind him. And then he’s up against the door and Bitty’s up against him and they’re kissing, hot long deep kisses with wet lips and tongues sliding together. Jack tastes like spice and beer, and he smells like fresh air and springtime. Bitty inhales greedily, pressing up as close as he can get to Jack. His fingers play frantically at the nape of Jack’s neck.

“Oh, my,” he breathes, “oh, Jack, the way you look. I’m just.. I…”

“You what?” Jack teases, stealing more soft kisses from Bitty’s lips, backing him toward the bed.

Bitty dares to reach out and run his hands over the silver handcuffs. They’re plastic, definitely meant for play, and his pulse jumps as they lift lightly in his palm. “I think you should make an arrest, officer,” he purrs.

“Oh.” Jack’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.”

Another minute and Jack’s pressing him into the bed, trailing kisses down his jaw to his neck, as Bitty squirms and arches beneath him. Bitty will never get used to the feel of Jack’s weight on top of him, warm and strong and solid, and the sweet ache wherever their skin comes into contact.He wants, needs more of it. He reaches up, puts some space between them, and tries to undo the buttons on Jack’s shirt. Jack growls and devours his mouth, one knee sliding between Bitty’s legs, his hips coming down to grind and rock against Bitty’s own.

“Jack,” Bitty murmurs, undoing more buttons. He slides his palm against Jack’s half-bared chest, and Jack sighs and whimpers just a little. “Jack, will you put me in those cuffs? As a birthday present?”

Jack smirks, deposits a kiss on Bitty’s mouth. “Yes,” he says, “but I’ve already brought you a present.”

He sits up. Bitty’s body protests the loss, but he waits patiently, because Jack said yes and Bitty will wait an eternity if he has to for that promise to be fulfilled. The small box Jack had brought with him has been deposited on Bitty’s desk, and Jack gets up and retrieves it now, offers it to Bitty to open. “If you don’t like it, it’s fine,” he says. “But I.. thought of you.”

“What on earth?” Bitty unwraps the ribbon around the box. He’s half expecting some sort of baking supply. But what he pulls out of the box is a bulbous object with a curved handle on the end. He thinks maybe it’s modern art, until Jack reaches over and twists a knob on the end of the handle.

It starts buzzing. And …. moving..

Bitty’s heart skips and his cock jumps. “Did… did you buy me a vibrator?” he says, flushing at even saying the word.

“It looked like fun.” Jack’s a little pink now, too. “I know we haven’t done much with toys, but I thought–”

Bitty surges forward and kisses him hard. He strokes Jack’s face, hands falling like rain on his hair and jaw and neck and shoulders. “Oh, honey,” he murmurs between hot kisses, “use it on me. Now. Tie me up and put that in me and… oh, God.” Lust is running untethered through his system. He thinks he’s going to pass out with how badly he wants to do _all the things_ with Jack. His ass is tingling just thinking about it.

“Holy– Bits– are you sure?” Jack’s breathing is coming shallowly, and he returns Bitty’s kisses half-dazed.

“Jack,” is Bitty’s only response. Their eyes meet. A hot coal of lust drops through Bitty’s stomach and threatens to burn him up inside out.

The next thing he knows he’s on his knees on the bed, French maid’s skirt hiked up over his waist and briefs discarded on the floor, as Jack works him open with lube. His heart races, and all his sensation is narrowed down to that questing finger, the tingle inside of him at each movement. He thinks of the toy, sitting there next to him on the bed, and heat flares in his gut.  “Jack,” he breathes again and again, “oh, Jack, hurry.”

“Nope,” Jack says, and continues opening Bitty up slowly, deliberately. By the time he finally finishes, Bitty’s a whimpering mess, clutching at the pillows and pushing his ass back into Jack’s hands, begging for more touch, more penetration. When Jack withdraws, Bitty gives a little moan of despair.

“Turn over,” Jack orders him. Bitty flips obediently, his body aching. He’s hard as hell, and when Jack reaches beneath the flipped-up skirt to run a hand up and down his shaft, he can’t help bucking into the touch. Fuck, but he needs Jack badly. So damn badly.

“Hands above your head,” is Jack’s next order. Bitty’s heart beats a drum roll in his chest. He lifts his hands, and with a soft click, the handcuffs go around his wrists. They’re lined with felt on the inside, soft, meant for comfort..

“You should always wear skirts,” Jack murmurs with a soft laugh. “Makes things so much easier.” He runs his hands up Bitty’s thighs,. Bitty shakes violently. Whimpers Jack’s name.

“Fuck, Bits.” Jack lowers his head, breathes against Bitty’s thighs. “Fuck, you look good like this.”

“You too,” Bitty whispers. Oh, how he wants to draw his hands against Jack’s nearly bare chest. Grab his ass and force them together. Rock against the solid weight of Jack’s hips. But he’s trapped, at Jack’s mercy. The current of excitement inside him is at fever pitch.

Jack lowers his head, kisses at the back of Bitty’s knees, pressing his lips into the soft skin of his thighs. Bitty watches with hungry eyes as he moves slowly upward, kissing sensitive flesh closer and closer to Bitty’s cock and balls. Bitty tries to adjust, shift, get Jack’s lips closer, but Jack is deliberate and careful, taking his sweet time. Bitty’s cock throbs, and he moans. At last, at last Jack is so close, another centimeter and he’ll be there, his lips pressing soft wonderful shivers into Bitty’s balls and—

–and he stops. Draws back. Bitty groans and strains and pumps his hips up into the air. The cuffs clatter as he struggles, shoulders twisting on the bed. “Jack, Jack, please.”

“Shh, shh, shh, patience.” Jack reaches for the toy, draws back and folds Bity’s legs up so his ass is exposed. The stretch and the press as Jack fits the toy inside him is beautiful agony.

Inside him, but Jack doesn’t turn it on. Not yet.

Instead, he leans over Bitty, kisses him soft and sweet. And soft and sweet is all well and good, but Bitty’s full, hot, his hips rocking upward, and he wants more. He moans, fingers clenching and unclenching in the cuffs. Jack reaches up with one hand and threads his fingers through Bitty’s. Bitty squeezes his hand tight. He wraps his legs around Jack’s waist and tries to pull him in.

Jack gives a low groan at the pressure. “ _Crisse_ , Bits.”  He’s hard, his cock a thick jut against the cradle of Bitty’s hips. When it bumps Bitty’s cock, they both gasp, then kiss, sucking at each other’s lips, groaning. Jack’s free hand slides down Bitty’s flank, holds at his thigh. Then – as Bitty silently begs for it – he reaches back and around, and sets the vibrator slowly buzzing.

Waves of warm sensation course through Bitty’s body, and he gives a gasp, then a cry. His whole body stiffens. “Oh, my _God_. Jack!” he wails, fingers going to claws in the cuffs, nails digging into the flesh of Jack’s hands.

Jack pulls back. Concern is a warm light in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, my God, Jack, I…”  Bitty squirms, tries to worm more friction, more contact out of the touch of their bodies. “Yes, yes I’m okay, honey, just… touch me, Jack, please.”

“Shh, shh.” Jack kisses him soundly. “Okay, okay.” He unlaces his fingers from Bitty’s, trails a hand down his arm to his shoulder. Bitty turns his head, trying to brush kisses against the back of his hand as it passes, but Jack doesn’t wait. He grips Bitty hard, both hands on his chest, feeling through the silly, frilly lace of the costume. Bitty arches under his touch. Jack’s hands pass over his hard nipples through the fabric. Bitty’s breath hitches, and he whimpers.

“I want to rip this off you,” Jack growls, settling between Bitty’s knees, lowering his mouth to nuzzle Bitty’s stomach through the fabric. And oh, God, Bitty wants him to right now, doesn’t care what happens to the damn thing so long as he can get Jack’s mouth hot against his skin. But there’s no way to do it, not without getting out of the cuffs, and Bitty’s so gloriously trapped that he doesn’t want to escape, not for anything. His hips twitch, canting from side to side. As Jack breathes hot against at the hiked-up hem of his skirt, Bitty keens and begs without words.

Jack holds him by the hips. Moves one hand just to push the skirt away. Hovers, looking down at Bitty’s cock. Takes in a soft breath. Bitty is taut, vibrations rolling through him, needing. Needing Jack’s mouth, his hard hands. Anything.

Jack lowers his mouth and kisses the shaft of Bitty’s cock.

Bitty takes in a choking gasp and pushes his hips up further. Jack licks at his shaft. Presses hot wet kisses to the base of his cock. Mouths up to the tip, takes it in. Bitty makes a noise that rings out in the room.

Jack’s fingers alight on his balls. He holds them loosely in his palm, one then the other. Bitty babbles and whispers and pleads.

Jack fits his mouth around Bitty’s cock, sucks in the head and lavishes it with sweet strokes of tongue. Bitty cries out, hot and sharp. “Jack, oh, oh my God, Jack, please!” Oh, Lord, he’s here in handcuffs and he can’t move and Jack’s mouth is on him and he’s going to burn up, he’s going to come in two seconds flat. He forces his breathing to calm, shuddering hard as the toy keeps sending intense sensation through him.

One hand on Bitty’s balls, the other snaking around to take hold of the toy by the handle, Jack sets up a maddening motion – long deep thrusts of Bitty’s cock in his mouth, a gentle rolling of the toy inside Bitty’s ass. Pleasure and sensation first one place, then the other, then improbably both at once, and tears are stinging at the corners of Bitty’s eyes with how excruciating it is. He struggles in the cuffs, dying to pet Jack’s head, to run his fingers through Jack’s hair, anything to tell him how good it all is.  

Stuck motionless, he resorts to words. “Jack,” he manages through shallow breaths and hitching gasps, “oh, Jack, oh, honey, I’m going to go crazy, you’re driving me crazy, please, sweetheart, please.”

Jack looks up. “Too much?” He murmurs in a low, caramel voice. “Should I stop?”

“No, oh God Jack no, don’t stop, I can’t stand it, it’s wonderful, please keep going–” Bitty’s going to say more but then Jack’s moving the toy inside him and he groans instead, eyes rolling back in his head.

Jack murmurs something, low, and then takes Bitty’s cock into his mouth again, and  from there on it’s just mind-numbing, body-burning pleasure. Deep, rocking vibrations; sweet wet licks and sucks, the weight of Jack on his legs and Bitty’s arms bound and straining. Every cell of him feels pushed to its limit. He can barely see. “Jack,” he gasps, “Jack, I can’t – oh, God, sweetheart – no, don’t stop, don’t- don’t slow down I just– I can’t hold back, honey—”

“Don’t hold back.” The words, pressed into the crux of his thighs. Jack takes one of Bitty’s balls in his mouth, and Bitty erupts in shudders, making high keening noises.

“Jack, please,” he breathes, “oh please don’t tease me.”

A low chuckle. And then, the full force of Jack’s mouth is on him, wet and sucking and tight. Bitty cries out, sharp, and then he’s gone. He thrusts up once, twice into Jack’s mouth and comes with a long groan. Jack swallows through his orgasm, mouth sinfully warm around him. Bitty fights to breathe. His throat is dry. His hips are still pumping, against air once Jack pulls off him, and his cock throbs so hard he thinks his heart’s plunged downward to settle in his gut. “Oh,” he murmurs, “oh, oh, honey, _oh_.”

Jack kisses the inside of his thighs – one, then the other – then licks the last drops from the tip of his cock and settles next to him on the bed. Bitty cranes up for a kiss, and Jack delivers. His mouth tastes warm and salty-sweet. He reaches down and pulls the toy out of Bitty. It buzzes obnoxiously in the air for a second before Jack turns it off.

“I don’t even have _words_ for that, honey,” Bitty murmurs. “No words.”

“You don’t need them,” Jack says. He’s smiling that beautiful, tender smile that Bitty has learned is reserved only for him. “Happy birthday.”

“Dear lord, get me out of these cuffs so I can hold you,” Bitty says. Jack laughs and complies. Freed, his wrists aching a little, Bitty pulls Jack close. “Oh, honey. I’ve got such ideas for how to use these things next.”

“So I shouldn’t throw out the cuffs?”

“Don’t throw out the costume, either,” Bitty tells him pointedly. He leans up and whispers in Jack’s ear.

“Oh.” Jack’s eyes go round and blank. Bitty fights back a laugh. This clueless boy.

He’s aware of Jack hard next to him, but his orgasm is still buzzing through him and he feels warm and sleepy all over. “Honey, do you mind if I let you take care of that?” he murmurs, brushing his hand over the lump in those ridiculously tight police pants. “I’ll make it up to you next time.”

Jack kisses his forehead. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “You rest.”

“Just for a minute…” but Bitty’s already half-dozing, pressing his face into Jack’s chest. He really ought to get up and go back downstairs to his party. He _really_ ought to. But… but just for now, this bed and Jack are all he needs. He’ll get up in a minute. In a few minutes.

The last things he knows before morning are warmth and happiness.

(The first thing he knows in the morning is soreness, but that’s okay, too.)


	34. a word for it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt. Nursey and Dex have a discussion about the importance of sex to a relationship. Some things get discovered, and some doors get opened.
> 
> ace!dex, pan!nursey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a bit of [discourse](http://tiptoe39.tumblr.com/post/164002531586/i-was-reading-your-stuff-on-ao3-n-just-wanted-to) about the sexualities represented in this fic.

“I‘m not saying you can’t have a relationship without it. I’m just saying it’s an important part of a lot of relationships.”

Nursey punctuates his point with a stab of the joint into the air, like it’s the tip of a sword. They’re high and on the porch of the Haus and hanging, and somehow the topic’s turned to sex. All Dex said was that he doesn’t think it’s that big a deal. Which is apparently the hill Nursey’s decided to die on tonight.

Dex isn’t about to back down, either. “It’s overrated,” he says. “The media wants you to think it’s super important, but it’s not. It’s not the most important thing.”

“I didn’t say it’s _the_ most important thing,” Nursey counters, “but it _is_ important. People have needs. You have to go into a relationship knowing those needs are gonna be a factor, sooner or later.”

“So you think if you don’t want sex you shouldn’t even date?”

Nursey gesticulates wildly. “Is that what I said? No! That’s not what I said!”

Dex, on the other hand, keeps his voice and face carefully even. “Then what are you saying, Nurse?”

For a minute it looks like Nursey’s going to explode with some kind of a frantic point. But he deflates instead, sighing. “Look. What I’m saying is, you can’t start dating someone and expect that they’re never gonna want to have sex. It’s gonna come up. If you’re not interested in it, ever, that’s something somebody oughta know ahead of time.”

“So what, then?” Dex retorts, annoyed by Nursey’s sudden calm. “I should walk into a date and say hi, nice to meet you, oh and by the way i’m never gonna bone you, still want to go for drinks?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth, Dex–” Nursey stops. Recalculates the meaning of the words in his head. Blinks at Dex. “Wait. You?”

“I–  um.” Dex flushes. He didn’t realize he’d changed pronouns. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Nursey’s expression is full of curiosity – and, more than that, a kind of realization Dex can’t characterize. “No, wait, I wanna know,” he presses. “You’re ace?”

Dex blinks. “I’m what?”

“Ace. Asexual. Like, you don’t feel sexual attraction.”

Nursey says it like it’s obvious, but Dex has to sit there and process the implication. Is that a thing? There are people like him, enough people for it to have a name? He’s silent for a minute, doing the mental math, trying to figure out what this moment means. “I… didn’t know there was a word for it,” he admits in a shy mumble.

At his words, Nursey’s face softens. “Dude, I’m sorry.” he says. “I didn’t know.”

All at once Dex is embarrassed beyond belief. “Forget it.”

“No. I mean it. I didn’t realize…”

“Forget it.” And Dex should really leave it there, but he’s high and he’s never had a chance to say any of this out loud and… “Look, I don’t know what it is, I just… don’t feel anything. Looking at someone hot, or even kissing or whatever. I don’t feel it. I don’t get turned on.”

“Like, ever?” Nursey’s leaning forward, examining Dex like he’s a bug under a microscope.

And like a bug, Dex squirms. “Like, I still get boners once in a while, but…”

“So like, have you ever done it, then?”

Dex’s cheeks go up in flame. “That’s…”

Nursey claps a hand over his mouth, then waves it frantically. “No, no, never mind,” he says, “that’s way too nosy. Sorry. Sorry.”

Something about his surrender gives Dex the courage to fill in the blank. “I have.”

“Oh.” Nursey sits there, quiet, his eyes boring into Dex’s face so hard Dex thinks he might have holes where his freckles were.

It gets to be ridiculous. “Oh, just ask,” Dex prompts him.

“Sorry,” Nursey says again, but he goes on. “So … how did that work? You were able to get it up?”

“No. I…” Well, fuck, he’s telling Nurse everything else, so why not? “I was on the other end.”

Nursey’s face does something that Dex finds altogether amusing. Wide eyes, red cheeks, parted lips. “Oh. OH. So you…”

“Yeah.” Dex kicks his feet against the porch railing. “I like guys. Like, I want to date guys. Yeah. But I’m not into sex.”

Nursey winces as though he’s the one being kicked. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah, it is. People are… not cool when they realize you just don’t get interested.”

“Oh, man. I had no idea.” Nursey passes a hand over his shoulder. “Guys gave you shit for it?”

And Dex is sure Nursey can see it all, then. Right there on his face. The pain, the bad memories.

He feels naked, more exposed than he’d ever been with those guys who’d seen him without a stitch, on his hands and knees praying that his body would react to the touch of a hand, a mouth, anything. But never feeling it. And then being accused of everything from frigidity to infidelity and back again. _You’re not really gay. You don’t really love me. You’re a cold fish. What the fuck is wrong with you?_

It was all horrible. But sitting here with Nursey, thinking of it, talking about it? It’s a new kind of vulnerability. One where the guy next to him, this improbable guy who challenges him every single day, is accepting him just the way he is. It makes Dex feel warm, in a new way. Open. Happy, almost.

And he thinks, God, if only Nursey weren’t so damn into sex. Because this, right here? This connection? This is what he’s been looking for with all those other guys. The sense of being close and intimate and together. If Nursey were the slightest bit interested in being with someone who doesn’t care for sex – and Nursey already _knows_ , so that would be that conversation over and done with –

Well. Maybe. Maybe there will be a door open for that somewhere down the line. Who knows. For now, he just gives Nursey a small smile and says, “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“What?” Nursey looks genuinely shocked. “Dude, I would never. That’s not my secret to tell.”

“Thanks.” It’s all Dex can think to say, but it means the world.

Nursey pats his knee gently. “Thank you for telling me.”

For a moment, just a moment, his hand lingers on Dex’s knee, and Dex can feel Nursey’s eyes on him, see out of the corner of his mind a question on that face. Then they’re gone, both the hand and the gaze, and Nursey’s refocused on nothing-in-particular. Dex takes the joint and has another drag. “Cool,” he says, and looks at nothing too.

Yeah, maybe that door will open someday. Doesn’t have to be tonight.

 

 


	35. #DexDay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt. Dex is feeling a little unloved. Chowder and Nursey conspire to fix that. Gen.
> 
> Many thanks to @crwilley, @urbanhymnal and @bittybae for their help in fashioning Dex-centric headcanons to feed this fic!

Everybody knows that Nursey annoys Dex. Nursey annoying Dex is a fact of life, like the sun coming up or Bitty baking pies. Nursey’s privileged as hell, and he thinks he’s a special sweet poetry-reading snowflake, and no matter how close they’ve gotten there will always be something about Nursey that just rankles Dex to his core.

But Nursey’s not the only thing that annoys Dex. And Dex feels fucking lousy about it. Because Nursey deserves it. But Chowder. Damn it, Chowder annoys Dex too, despite the fact that he’s never done a thing to deserve it.

It’s not even Chowder himself, really. It’s the way people respond to him. He’s everybody’s favorite puppy dog in goalie form, and everyone treats him like that, lining up to feed him or scratch him behind the ears. Dex doesn’t get that kind of treatment. He doesn’t have the right temperament. And who needs to be babied and coddled and loved on like that, anyway? It’d be humiliating, he’s almost sure of it.

But damn it, sometimes he wishes someone would treat him like he’s special, too. 

He never means to mention it. Ever. _Ever._ But somehow he ends up in the kitchen drunk and watching Chowder and Farmer cuddle on the couch in the other room, and well, Bitty’s the kind of guy you can say _anything_ to. He’s probably heard any number of kitchen confessionals from less-than-sober teammates.

“Like,” he says, brandishing his plastic cup at Bitty, “I get that he’s like your baby. He’s the baby, whatever. But, like, as a parent, you shouldn’t be playing favorites. I mean. You’re not a parent. But the point is. Still.”

“Aw, Dex, honey.” Bitty sits across the table from him. “It’s all right. You can tell me how you feel.”

“I’m just– I’m someone too, you know? I feel things. I’m not just some kind of, I don’t know, brick wall. Ugh. It’s frustrating.” He cards his fingers through his hair. “Like, I can’t even be good at hockey without a partner. I’m always one half of a team. Nothing’s fucking special about Billy Poindexter. It’s. Argh.”

Somehow the cup seems like it’d be much better used thrown against a wall. Luckily, by now it’s empty. Dex flings it across the room and watches it bounce off the cabinet and onto the counter. Useless, unmoved, undented. Just like him. So goddamn resilient nobody thinks he can be broken or bent at all.

“You’re absolutely special,” Bitty is saying, but even Bitty can’t really calm this sour a mood. Dex scowls, and stands, and heads out for more tub juice. He doesn’t even really remember going home.

Bitty doesn’t say a word about the conversation the next day, or the day after that. Dex is relieved. He’s embarrassed to think those words came out of his mouth, that he showed that kind of vulnerability. Nobody cares about his crappy hurt feelings, nor should they. That kind of thing is a waste of time.

Dex has read articles about how kids these days grew up thinking they’re special, and that’s why they’re never happy as adults. They all think they should be a pop star or an astronaut. Dex thanks his lucky stars that his parents raised him without any of that feel-good nonsense. They loved him, but they never told him he could be anything he wanted to be. Instead, they let him know about reality. Dex has grown up competent and hard-working, and that’s five hundred times better than growing up idealistic and naive. When he graduates college, he’ll be ready for the real world. Life’s about working hard and getting shit done, and all the Sesame Street positivity crap is useless.

So he buries the hurt, and the memory of having given it voice. It doesn’t matter. Life goes on.

* * *

The next Saturday, Dex is awoken by a series of loud raps on his dorm room door. Sleepily, ready to murder whoever it is, he makes his way from his bed, past his still-snoring roommate, and to the door. He opens it to face Chowder and Nursey, who are grinning ear to ear. “Hi!” Chowder says. “We’re here to take you to breakfast!”

Dex blinks at him through bleary eyes. “You’re what?”

“Breakfast, dude.” Nursey’s smile is a little more unnerving than Chowder’s, if only because Dex isn’t as used to it. “Get dressed, let’s go.”

Dex smells a rat, but he shrugs on a T-shirt and slacks and dutifully follows his fellow frogs to Annie’s. Chowder and Nursey usher him through the door and over to the nearest table, on which is carefully arrayed a line of three scones. Each one is laced with a small drizzle of icing in the shape of a letter - - “D,” “E,” and “X.”

As Dex is eyeing them suspiciously, a cute waitress comes up and delivers three fresh black coffees to the table, each one piping hot. “Congratulations,” she says to Dex, a little giggle trailing off the end of her word. She skips back to her spot behind the counter, but continues to glance over at where Dex is standing, dumbfounded.

“What the hell,” he finally manages, in a voice that won’t conjure up the sharpness he wants to convey.

“It’s Dex Day!” Chowder bursts out.

Dex has to struggle not to sputter. “It’s _what_?”

“It’s Dex Day!” Chowder repeats. It’s clear that he’s been dying to say it out loud since they arrived. “It’s a day all about you! Isn’t that exciting?”

“I’m going back to bed,” Dex says flatly, and turns on his heel.

He’s halfway to the door when Nursey slides in front of him, arms outspread. “Dude, don’t,” he warns. “He’s been so excited about this all week.”

“Oh, come on.” Dex tries to push past him, but Nursey won’t have it. He presses his hands against Dex’s chest and shoulders, stopping him physically from getting any further.

“Dude, it’s okay. C’mon, don’t break his heart.”

Oh, so this is all about _Chowder_ ’s feelings. That’s just about the last straw in Dex’s still sleep-soggy mind. For a moment he thought this was supposed to be about _him._ Stupid. “He’ll get over it. This is embarrassing.”

“It’s a cup of coffee and a scone.” Nursey’s adamant. “Besides, dude. It won’t kill you to let people take care of you for a bit. Just for once in your life. I promise.”

Dex stops. Sighs. Peeks over his shoulder at the table, the three scones and coffees, Chowder’s excited face half-fallen with disappointment… well, _shit_. He’s just as bad as everyone else, isn’t he? He can’t leave Chowder looking like that. “Fuck. What is this gonna be?”

“Just breakfast for now. We have a couple of other things planned, but don’t worry about that yet. Right now, sit down and have a coffee.”

So Dex does, picking the scone with the “X” on it, and slowly wakes up as Nursey and Chowder chat with him about their game tomorrow and what Farmer said about what March said about Julia from the soccer team. Dex half-follows it all, his mind still whirling around this improbable situation. Well, okay, the situation isn’t that improbable. He’s with his buds at Annie’s on a Saturday morning. That happens often. But Nursey’s drinking black coffee, too, and that almost never happens. He’s surprised the poor guy hasn’t choked yet.

* * *

After breakfast, Dex is caffeinated enough that he says okay to sitting out on the edge of River Quad for a bit. Nursey, as per usual, has a book of poetry in the pocket of his jacket that he pulls out. This time it’s one Dex hasn’t seen before, but that’s nothing new – Nursey has a universe of those books. Grinning, Nursey turns to him, sitting cross-legged on the stone wall near the walkway. “Okay!” he says. “Poetry reading time. These go out to my friend William Poindexter, with love.”

What Nursey’s about to spout at him is either going to be some kind of object lesson or something really cheesy about friendship. Dex braces himself.

“ _Candy_ ,” Nursey reads aloud, “ _is dandy._ ”

_What?_

“ _But liquor is quicker,_ ” Nursey finishes, and leans forward in an impromptu bow.

Dex blurts out with a laugh before he means to.  Chowder applauds.

Nursey pages to another dog-eared part of the book. “Ahem.

_“When called by a panther,  
Don’t anther.”_

Dex snorts a laugh, then grabs at the book (Nursey jerks it out of reach). “Those aren’t poems.”

“They are,” Nursey insists, “by the famous poet Ogden Nash. I knew you’d like them. Here, here’s a limerick for you.”

_“A wonderful bird is the pelican,_  
His bill can hold more than his beli-can.  
He can take in his beak  
Food enough for a week  
But I’m damned if I see how the heli-can.”

This time Dex has to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from guffawing. Chowder is kicking his feet up in the air and laughing uproariously. Nursey looks inordinately pleased with himself. “Oh, oh, oh, here’s one I really dig,” he says.

_“Why did the Lord give us agility,  
If not to evade responsibility?”_

Nursey is grinning, Dex frowns. “I don’t like that one,” he says.

“Oh.” Chowder looks terribly disappointed. “Why not?”

“Because he’s the king of responsibility,” Nursey guesses. “Aren’t you, Dex?”

Dex feels like he’s come crashing down to earth after a little too long in the clouds. The stone is hurting his ass, and the air’s chill is starting to seep into his bones. “I’m just saying, it sounds like all this dude did was fuck around. And you know, lucky him, to get to make his money making jokes, but the rest of us gotta work to make sure he has a paper and pen to write with. So good for him getting off on telling everybody to evade responsibility, but everybody _can’t_. So stop lording it over us.”

He’s putting it out there like you pour blood into shark-infested waters, and he expects a retort from Nursey at the very least. But instead, he’s met with silence. He looks from Nursey to Chowder, blank face and equally blank face, waiting for some kind of reaction.

Chowder finds his voice first. “Wow,” he says, “that’s a really good point, Dex.”

“Yeah, man,” Nursey says. “Point taken.”

This is when Dex _knows_ he’s being fucked with. And now he thinks he knows why.

He rises to his feet and brushes the Quad’s dust and soil off his butt. “Yeah, we’re fucking done here. Thanks for breakfast and shit, but I’m taking off.”

Again, he expects some response, but all Chowder says is, “Okay…. If that’s really what you want.” He sounds abjectly miserable. Nursey stays silent, but he’s got kind of a sad tilt to his eyebrows that Dex isn’t sure he’s ever seen before.

Dex looks at them for a moment. Fuck. _Fuck._ “Fine. Just give me like an hour or two. I’ll meet you guys for lunch.”

The pinch to Chowder’s brow relaxes. Nursey gives him a nod. It’s enough that Dex can comfortably turn his back and walk away for a while.

* * *

He walks straight to the Haus and darkens the door of the kitchen.

“Bitty,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Hm?”  Bitty’s spreading batter in a shallow pan. Next to him sits a bowl full of something yellow and frothy. “Oh, hi, there! Enjoying your day so far?” He winks.

Dex fumes. “Did you tell them? _Did you TELL THEM?_ ”

It takes Bitty a minute, but when he realizes, his face softens into something like pity. “Oh, honey, no! But you were a little drunk, and, well, a little loud. They were right there, after all.”

If the earth comes up and swallows Dex right now, it’ll be perfect timing. “Oh, Christ.” He leans over the counter, planting his hand over his face.

Then he takes a sniff. Slowly, he follows his nose over to the yellow-filled bowl. “Are you making lemon squares?”

Bitty hums noncommittally.

Dex’s favorite dessert – and hardly a coincidence. He twists his lips. “You’re in on this.”

“Oh, only a little.” Bitty lifts the pan, sniffs at it. “Mm, the lemon zest in the batter’s going to do the trick, I think.”

Dex watches in dumbfounded silence as Bitty carries the pan over to the oven and slides it in. Still hunched over the oven, his ass sticking out, Bitty gives a soft chuckle. “Don’t worry about it so much, hon,” he says. His voice echoes off the inside of the oven, giving it a soft, hollow ring.

“Hm.” Dex now has the worst craving for lemon squares, and it’s making him crankier. Why can’t they be done _now_?

Bitty straightens up. “Those boys care about you,” he says, his face kind but serious. “That’s a good thing. Let them.”

_Those boys care about you._ It’s … an idea Dex hadn’t really considered. This whole business could be any number of things. An elaborate prank, Chowder trying to ingratiate himself to Dex, Nursey racking up points that Dex will owe him later… anything along those lines would make sense, but the guys actually caring about him and trying to be good friends? People aren’t like that. Not real people. Okay, maybe people like Bitty are.

And maybe people like Chowder. And sometimes even Nursey.

Dex abruptly feels horrible. He’s built up this reservoir of resentment, as though Chowder’s just been playing sweet and innocent, but he hasn’t, really. There’s a reason everyone treats Chowder like he’s so sweet, and it’s because he _is_. And Nursey’s not obstinate, he’s just _passionate_. They’re good guys, both of them. It feels like the first time Dex has ever realized how much he _likes_ them both. Humbled, he bites his lip and looks at his feet, trying to figure out what to do with this knowledge.

Bitty pats him on the shoulder gently. “Remember,” he says, “hashtag-got-your-back.”

Dex huffs out a soft laugh. It’s not just a reminder – it’s good advice.

“Save a couple of those for me,” he says, nodding toward the oven, and heads back out.

* * *

They’re waiting for him at lunch, and when he shows up, they break out into grins. Chowder actually applauds. “Dex Day continues!” he declares.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dex says, waving the enthusiasm away and getting set to dig into his chicken tenders.

He doesn’t get the chance. In another moment, Chowder’s leaning over the table and presenting him with an elaborately wrapped gift.

“A present?” Dex is dubious. “It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s Dex Day,” Chowder insists with a little pout. “Open it, open it.”

Dex cannot begin to fathom what might be inside this box. He undoes the ribbon, tears off the paper – and stares.

“Legos?” he says after a minute. Chowder nods and grins. Dex glances over at Nursey, who’s nursing a tiny smile, then back at Chowder. “How old are you, man?”

“No, but look,” Chowder says, grabbing the box away from him. He turns it over and points to the parts list on the back. “It has like a motor, and circuits and like a little microphone and stuff so you can build all kinds of stuff with it. Voice-activated controls, it says. So you can tell it to move and it’ll move. And you can like sync it with a computer program. I thought it was so cool I almost bought one for myself.”

Dex almost gets hung up on the number of “like”s in Chowder’s soliloquy, but then a thought hits him sideways. The thought is of his roommate, Evan. More specifically, Evan’s horribly deviated septum. If a Lego machine can be voice-activated, can it be snore-activated? Could Dex build a little machine to roll up and bump against Evan’s bed once he starts snoring? Because when Dex gets up and kicks the edge of Evan’s bed, that usually stops him snoring for a time. If Dex could make something that would do the waking up and bed-kicking for him, that would be…

“Oh, man,” Nursey says next to him with a laugh. “Look at you. I can see the gears turning already.”

“Ooh!” Chowder leans forward, fists clenched, eyes shining. “What are you going to build? What are you going to make?”

Dex stares at him. Chowder’s full of enthusiasm and interest, like he always is. But Dex isn’t sure he’s ever been the object of it before. It’s… heartwarming, actually. And more than a little flattering. Maybe this is why everyone treats Chowder like he’s so sweet and special. Because he gives so much of himself to other people. Because he really, honestly cares. Being on this end of all that adoration, Dex can hardly blame them.

He lets slip just a hint of a grin. Examining the box, he nods thoughtfully. “Let’s see,” he says, “if I can get the voice activation to work right, I think I could probably design a program … “

* * *

After lunch, they head back to Nursey’s place. Nursey has a projector set up in his brownstone, hooked up to a DVD player, and for a few hours they watch part of his collection of old Buster Keaton and Chaplin shorts. Dex has always loved watching stuff at Nursey’s, partly because the projector is easier on his eyes than huge TV screens, partly because Nursey’s got a hell of a collection of old black-and-white classics. Which Dex has always found uniquely hilarious in a way movies these days don’t capture. He laughs his damn fool head off.

From there they go to the Haus. Bitty’s finished up his lemon squares by now, and he has kept a heaping plateful safe from hungry hockey players for, apparently, just this moment. He serves the platter to Nursey, Chowder and Dex with bright eyes, waits around for them to declare the squares delicious, then retreats to his room to allow them to eat in peace.

And they _are_ delicious. From the sweet tang of the lemon filling to the soft bite of the cake, they’re made almost perfectly to Dex’s taste. He has three without thinking, then pauses on the verge of a fourth to notice that the room has gone quiet. Chowder and Nursey are both grinning at him wordlessly. Dex’s cheeks start to heat up, and he looks from one to the other, trying to figure out the words to the question he’s been dying to ask.

“Guys,” he says, finally, “why’re you doing all this?”

They glance at each other. Dex clears his throat.

“I mean yeah, I get it, Dex Day, or whatever… but why? First of all, you have to know this was gonna embarrass the hell out of me. And you know I’m not the gushy type, so… why bother? It’s not like I’m gonna fall all over myself to thank you for it.” He coughs. There’s an acrid lemon taste in the back of his throat. “Not saying I’m not grateful. But… still. Why?”

“Because you’re special to us,” Chowder says readily.

Dex blinks at him.

Chowder sits up straight and heaves a sigh. “You’re our friend,” he says, sounding  surprisingly sober, “and not just because we all play together. You’re a great guy, Dex. And we haven’t been showing you how much we appreciate you. That’s on us. So this is our way of trying to fix that. To let you know we care about you.”

“Yeah, man,” Nursey says softly. He reaches over and touches Dex’s shoulder – a gentle, warm pat. “First of all, everyone deserves to be fussed over once in a while. And you’re not just anyone, you’re our bro.”

“Exactly.” Chowder leans forward across the table, extends his hand palm down like they’re about to break a huddle. “Frog solidarity!”

Dex pauses, trying to find something to doubt, something to not believe in. But he can’t. These guys have done him in. He layers his hand over Chowder’s.

Nursey puts his hand on Dex’s. “Frog solidarity,” he says solemnly.

There, his hand sandwiched between theirs, Dex finally feels maybe a little special. “Frog solidarity,” he repeats. He can hear the low, amused note in his own voice, and something about it excites him. He’s had far too few opportunities in his life to sound like that. Until these guys came along.

They glow at him for a minute, then Nursey breaks the pose with a shout. “Yo, selfie time!” He reaches for his phone. “Grab a lemon square, dude.”

Dex lifts one up to the camera and points to it like a model in a catalog. Nursey pushes his cheek up against Dex’s. Chowder squeezes in next to them, making a peace sign. The three of them snap a photo that really isn’t half bad, and Nursey puts it on his Instagram.

Bitty tweets a link to it later that day, tagging it with #DexDay.  It gets over 20 likes.

Yeah, okay. Maybe Dex feels just a little special.

 

 


	36. about this night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @omgcheckplease 11/5/2014 2:55:58
> 
> Jack wants to walk past Faber. Taking the long way back to the #HausSweetHaus.

They’re rounding Faber on the way home from the library.  It’s 3 a.m. and the town of Samwell has a muted almost-hush about it. It’s never totally silent, even in the wee hours – these are the perils of being a college town – but right now, at least, a relative quiet has fallen over the grassy expanses and clustered buildings, a sort of intermission between the last drunken partygoer and the first early-rising athlete. It’s gentle somehow. The whole world is padded corners and soft curves.

Gentle, too, is Jack’s presence next to Bitty. As they pass by the wide windows and stone walls of Faber, Jack’s gaze lingers, as though he’s witnessing memories projected onto the surfaces. Bitty sees the light in his eyes, and something wobbles inside his heart that he’s afraid to name. He’s been… emotional, lately, thinking about Jack. Jack, who’s taking strides toward his future every day. Jack, who Bitty feels he’s just getting to know. It’s taken them long enough, but this … this is a real friendship they’re building, with late-night study sessions and sidelong grins. It gladdens Bitty’s heart in a way he’s not sure he understands. And makes him sad, because whatever it is, it’ll be gone within a year.

But for now, in the quiet, as they walk along the back edge of Faber and head for the bridge, time feels like it stands still. Bitty considers teasing Jack for taking them three full blocks out of their way, but he doesn’t want this wordless, late-night walk to be over too soon. If Jack hadn’t already done so, Bitty might just come up with his own excuse for extending it.

Under the bridge, the water flows dark and thick as molasses. The yellow globe of a streetlamp floats, reflected, along the surface. Bitty watches it, leaning over the railing. He imagines he could scoop it out of the river with a net, hold it in his hands. The idea is appealing, for some reason Bitty can’t name, and he smiles down at the river. _You know,_ he thinks. _You see the two of us, and you get what’s happening here. Can you tell me? Because I don’t understand it at all._

“You’re quiet,” says Jack, his voice low and soft. Bitty gives a little gasp and straightens up. He turns, faces Jack. That same streetlamp is reflected, twin golden pennies, in the pupils of his eyes.

“Am I?” Bitty shrugs, laughs. “I guess so… I’m just thinking.”

Jack’s smile is a bare slip of a thing, just the upturned corner of one edge of his mouth. “About what?”

_About this night. About you. About how we’re walking here side by side in the middle of the night, when a year ago you could barely stand to look at me. About how that makes me so happy and I don’t understand why._

He shrugs. “I don’t know. How nice a night it is.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Jack glances upward, lifting his chin. His gaze seems to skirt the edge of the trees a block away. “Kind of a shame it’s almost over. Sun’ll be rising soon.”

That feels like a tragedy, and Bitty leaps to avert it. “We’ve still got a few hours left! You wanna go back to my place? My room, I mean. I’ll show you cat videos until breakfast.”

This brings a laugh to Jack’s lips. “We should probably sleep for a few hours, Bittle.”

“Oh, Mr. Zimmermann.” Bitty turns up his nose. “Always such a pragmatist.”

“No,” Jack counters without even a beat. “You’re just a romantic.”

“I’m…” A blush comes rushing to Bitty’s cheeks. _Romantic._ What’s that word doing on Jack Zimmermann’s tongue? It doesn’t belong there. Jack shouldn’t even know that word. There’s no romance in Jack’s life – there hasn’t been – there couldn’t be. He doesn’t love anything but hockey, right? How could he? A person is so much harder to control than a puck. Jack probably wouldn’t know what to do with a pretty girl.

And frankly, the thought that he would is disturbing, somehow.

They fall into silence, after that, just taking the river road southward toward home. Bitty stifles a yawn. It is late, and he _does_ probably need some sleep. But he’s still loath to let the evening end. He tugs his bookbag up on his shoulder and tries to slow his steps toward the Haus.

Jack is a few steps ahead before he realizes Bitty’s stopped. He turns. “What’s wrong, Bittle?”

“What? Nothing!” Bitty hurries to catch up.

“Just enjoying the night, eh?”

“S-something like that.” He offers Jack a shrug and a grin.

“Me, too,” Jack says, and there’s a low, honest note in his voice. “I don’t really feel like sleeping yet. Maybe I _should_ come watch cat videos for a while.”

Bitty’s cheeks flood with color. “Really?”

“No, not really.” Jack frowns, but only briefly, before his face lights up with amusement again.

His smile’s luminous in the darkness.  Just for a second, Bitty’s heart skips.

_Oh._ What was that? Why did that happen? He’s seen Jack’s teasing smile before. More often than he cares to, if he’s honest – that smile usually comes at Bitty’s expense. But it’s never made him feel so … _light,_ might be the right word. Almost dizzy. And there’s this odd sensation that he’s never looked at Jack before – seen him, yes, plenty of times, but never really _looked._

He’s tempted to look again, and see what happens.

But it’s late, and Jack is right. They should get some sleep. As they approach the Haus, Bitty averts his eyes. Whatever’s come over him, he needs to banish it now, before it causes problems. He’s careful not to look at Jack all the way up the stairs, and he slips into his room after a murmured “good night,” still turned away.

By morning, everything will be normal again.

But the next time he looks at Jack – really looks – will be in the kitchen, as they work on their projects together – and then there will be no looking away.


	37. gentle, quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of 3x10, Bitty brings Jack upstairs so he can dry off. Things happen. (R-rated.)

They tiptoe into Bitty’s room in the very earliest light of morning. Jack’s leaving a trail of dark raindrops along the hallway, but they’ll be dry by the time anyone else is awake. Bitty sits him down in the desk chair, goes to the closet and pulls out a towel. Silently, he towels off Jack’s soaked head, standing a whisper away from Jack in the little room. Jack looks up at him through quiet blue eyes. Bitty takes in a breath. Even through his own bleary gaze, Jack’s beautiful.

“Are you okay?” Jack asks. “With what we talked about?”

Bitty closes his eyes, recalls the tail end of the phone conversation. They’d come to a slow agreement – Bitty would tell a few of the members of the team, so he’d have someone, some outlet. And then Jack had shown up an hour later, saying Bitty didn’t need to do it alone, and here – here he is. In the warmth of this moment, with their embrace downstairs still sending waves of warmth through him, Bitty can smile wanly and nod, opening his eyes to meet Jack’s gaze. “Yeah,” he says, “yes, Jack, I’m okay.”

“I’ll be right there.” Jack lifts a hand, presses it against Bitty’s waist. “I’ll be right here with you.”

His hand is damp, but big and warm, and Bitty feels a flush of warmth grow in his stomach. “Jack,” he murmurs, knowing there’s a hush in his own voice.

In response, Jack tugs, a sudden motion. Bitty steps forward involuntarily. Jack’s knees part to give him room to come closer.

Distracted, his heart accelerating, Bitty continues to towel Jack off. He rubs the towel, now damp, over Jack’s ears, the back of his neck. Jack’s face is all bright angles in the dimness. He looks at Bitty with something that’s almost reverence, almost hunger.

“We, ah…” Bitty’s hand on the towel goes slack. “We should probably get some rest.”

“Bits.” Jack’s looking up at him. Looking at Bitty like that, lifting his other hand to draw Bitty closer still – it’s more than Bitty can handle. He tips his chin down, presses a kiss against Jack’s forehead. The bridge of his nose. Jack leans up. Their mouths brush.

“Jack.” The word comes shakily from Bitty’s lips. Jack is still right there, so close. Their lips are touching again by the end of the word. Jack presses, pushes against him, taking a deeper drink of him. Heat plummets through Bitty’s gut.

“I should get out of these wet clothes, eh?” Barely above a whisper, just a guttural, low sound that takes Bitty’s breath away.

“Oh, _honey_. It’s late… it’s so late, it’s rounded the corner to early again…” Bitty’s making excuses, but he wants. Oh, he wants so badly.

Jack smooths his hand up Bitty’s waist to his ribcage. “I’m not asking for anything,” he says. “Just.. to hold you for a little while. I thought– for a minute I thought–”

Is that fear in his eyes? The memory of fear, at least. Something curls in Bitty’s chest. “Oh, honey,” he says again, but this time it’s not an admonishment. To think Jack could be scared of something. And to think that something would be losing _him._

He runs a hand through Jack’s still-damp hair. Jack nuzzles into the touch, sighing.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Bitty says. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

Jack’s eyes light up, and he nods.

Bitty starts by running his hands under the jacket, sliding it off Jack’s shoulders. It falls limply to the floor, a gray arc around Bitty’s desk chair. It’s only then that Bitty sees just how soaked through Jack’s shirt is. The fabric clings to his shoulders and upper arms, nearly translucent for all the water that’s collected in it. Bitty shakes his head and sighs, then gets to work on the little white buttons.

One button, exposing Jack’s throat – a second, the top of his chest – a third, and Bitty stops and stares. Jack’s damp skin glows a slight pink, a sheen reflecting in the dim light. A stray droplet from his collar trickles down over his chest, gets caught in the hair there. Bitty envies it. He’s yawning as he continues, so tired from emotional exertion and lack of sleep, but Jack’s presence is like a battery, the touch of his skin under Bitty’s fingertips sending surges of restless energy up through him. And Jack’s eyes – even a little bleary, half-lidded – they’re burning Bitty up. This close, he can see himself reflected in Jack’s pupils, a light-touched silhouette in darkness.

Jack stands, allowing him easier access to the last few buttons. Bitty’s fingers stumble around them. As he slides his fingers under Jack’s shirt to ease it off, he lets out a little sigh. Jack’s skin. How he misses the touch of it in those long days between their times together. Stepping forward, he presses his face into Jack’s chest, inhales the scent of rain. Jack lifts a hand to his hair and strokes softly. It’s not a fierce embrace, like downstairs – it’s gentle, quiet, enjoying each other.

Bitty loosens Jack’s belt, pulls it free. Jack shivers as his slacks fall to the floor. “We’d better get you under some blankets,” Bitty murmurs, and presses a kiss to his chest. Jack nods, walks the both of them toward the bed. Simple. Gentle. Quiet.

And yet somehow a minute later they’re falling onto the bed together, kissing. Jack’s hands press against the small of Bitty’s back, Bitty pushing closer into the warm circle of Jack’s chest and stomach. Jack’s sighing. Bitty’s moaning and murmuring Jack’s name. It’s not red-hot passion, but it’s more than Bitty thought he had the energy for. He pulls Jack over him. Kicks the blankets up over the both of them. Feels Jack’s weight and warmth trapped in that wonderful small space between him and the comforter, revels in it.

Jack’s hard against him. The feeling of it has Bitty’s shorts starting to tent, and when Jack groans and sucks a welt against his jawline, Bitty knows he can feel it. “Oh, Lord,” he whispers, carding his fingers through Jack’s hair. “What are we doing… we haven’t slept…”

“I– _Bits_.” It’s the best Jack can do to answer. His incoherence makes Bitty giddy. He runs his hands down the planes of Jack’s back, sighing, wrapping his legs around Jack’s waist. The friction sends dry heat up through his core.

The bed creaks beneath them. “Shh,” Bitty half-giggles, a sound that turns into a bitten-back whimper at the feel of Jack’s teeth along the line of his neck. “Shh, we’ll– ahh – we’ll wake Chowder–”

Jack gives a little sound near his ear, and the rocking of his hips into Bitty’s – God, that sweet wonderful rocking – slows. “I’m just,” he says, and sucks in a breath. “I’m so glad you’re still–” The words ebb, and Jack lifts his head to stare down at Bitty.

“I need you,” he says. Serious, slow and sure.

Once more. “I need you.”

Bitty can’t move, can’t breathe with the power and the truth of it.

His hand is in Jack’s hair. It slides, the pull of gravity on his arm, to cup Jack’s cheek. Jack nuzzles into it. Bitty stares, amazed.

Jack leans down again.

Dimly, in the back of his mind, Bitty’s still worrying about a thousand things. It’s too early. What if someone hears something and checks up on him? What if someone recognizes Jack’s car, parked far away as it might be? What if… oh, but what-ifs are so weak against Jack’s kisses, as powerful and solid as the rest of him, drenching Bitty’s mouth and dragging against his skin. Bitty clasps his hands around Jack’s neck, pulls as though he could yank Jack even closer.

The bed makes another horrible creak. Something stirs down the hall.

This time they both stop. Jack sighs, then rolls to the side. Bitty already misses the heat of him. He eases onto his side, presses his face into Jack’s neck, laying sucking kisses there. Jack groans, then apologizes in a whisper. Bitty laughs.

The kisses they share now are lazy, slower, although the heat is still churning through Bitty’s gut and he’s still rock-hard against Jack’s hip. Jack is trailing a hand down Bitty’s arm. Their fingers tangle briefly. Bitty feels connected to him, soul-deep, like their atoms understand one another. His eyelashes flutter, and he murmurs Jack’s name into their kiss.

“Bits,” Jack answers against his lips, and then, whispered: “Do you think you can be quiet?”

Bitty’s still trying to find words to ask what that means when Jack shifts on the bed. He’s shucking off his boxers, kicking them to the foot of the bed, buried in the comforter. Bitty looks down, blushes. He may never get entirely used to the sight of Jack naked, hard for him. As he watches, Jack reaches down, circles his own cock with thumb and forefinger, strokes down and then up again.

“You, too,” he whispers.

Bitty looks down. Up again. He’d thought… “Myself?” he says.

Jack nods.

And oh, okay, that’s something he hadn’t thought of, but … Bitty rolls onto his back, shrugs down his shorts. Jack leans over him and kisses him, soft and sure. The kiss, and his first tentative stroke of himself, send twin waves of warmth layering over each other, coursing through his body. Oh, _yes_. He can do this.

He can feel Jack’s hand moving near his thigh, knuckles brushing his skin. Jack gives a soft moan, kisses him again, fuller and deeper. Bitty licks into his mouth. It’s his own hand, but it doesn’t feel anything like when he’s alone. Not when Jack’s kissing him, not when Jack’s breaking their kiss to breathe heavily against his skin. Not when he finds the perfect rhythm, a smooth downstroke as Jack’s lips purse against his, a shiver-inducing upstroke when they break to breathe. A circle around the head of his cock, velvet-light, when Jack presses a kiss to his jaw, just below his ear. They’re drinking each other in and reveling in each other’s presence and everything’s quiet and wonderful.

Jack’s breath comes shorter. Bitty blinks in the sunlight that’s starting to stream in through the window, all orange-gold. Every line of Jack’s face appears sharp and golden in his vision, every place his forehead wrinkles as he moves. They’ve done this over Skype a few times, watching each other’s faces, but it hasn’t been this close up, and even after everything else they’ve already done, it feels like a first.

But it’s just right, right for this moment and how they’re both feeling. Sleepy, lazy, easy together. Just drinking kisses, pressing close together, doing what’s natural and easy and practiced. No worries, none of the stress or the guesswork that comes with pleasing each other. Just this, being themselves, touching themselves, but doing it completely and utterly together.

They come seconds apart, Bitty gasping and seizing up as he arches into Jack’s kiss, Jack breaking the kiss to pant against Bitty’s neck and whisper “ _Bits_ * into the crevice of skin behind his ear. The bed creaks only a little. Jack shakes. Bitty wipes his hand on his stomach, then lifts it to pet at Jack’s hair, now only slightly damp. They look at each other in the early morning light. Jack’s smiling. Bitty feels like his heart might crowd out all his other organs for how strongly it’s swelling in his chest.

“Now we really should get some rest,” he whispers. Jack nods.

Bitty finds the energy to cross the room for some tissues; they clean up and deposit them on the floor, then tuck into each other, legs between legs and arms circling wide planes of warm skin. Jack’s head rolls forward to touch Bitty’s. Side by side, wrapped into each other, they doze off under the brightening morning sunlight. 


	38. Three Kisses on Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three kisses before, during, and after the fateful Brunch at Jerry's.

**I. Before Brunch**

Jack sets the alarm for 9 a.m. It affords them a little less than four hours of sleep, but they’ve both survived on less. More importantly, it gives them plenty of time to get up and dressed and sneak out of the Haus before anyone else is awake. Jack’s suit is a little clammy, still, but wearable. He climbs into it, then steps over the heating grate in Bitty’s room for a few minutes to try to dry it off. Bitty laughs at him.

They leave the house and go for a walk along the river. The geese have flown south for the winter, but the everpresent New England crows caw at them like a bunch of loud-mouthed housewives. Jack imagines that they’re giving them some encouragement. Caw– _stand your ground!_ Caw– _it’ll be all right!_ He laughs at himself for the flight of imagination. His breath comes out in a visible puff.

“What are you laughing about?” Bitty asks, a bit suspiciously.

Jack shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s nice to be back at Samwell in the morning.”

“Well, I suppose after today, you can come stay over anytime,” Bitty says, a nervous edge in his voice. “I mean, if everyone’s okay with it.”

“They will be,” Jack says, squeezing Bitty’s shoulder. 

Bitty gives him a halfhearted smile “I know. But gosh, it’s different than just coming out myself, isn’t it? You know, I’m nervous about you and…”  

“Bits.” Jack looks down at him, then up at the winter-blue sky. “I’m fine. I’m actually… relieved.” And he is. There’s a strange sort of calm settling around him, knowing that he’s going to share this part of himself with the boys. The people he’s trusted, relied on, loved for years, the people who have given him the gift of friendship and loyalty for so long. It feels overdue. It feels right.

They pause at the foot of a bridge. Bitty’s face brightens. Jack wonders if he’s remembering them running into each other, accidentally-on-purpose, almost a year ago to the day. Jack had been so excited to see him walking along, his heart filling with a fondness he hadn’t then recognized. He wonders if Bitty knows what it meant to him, every moment they spent together on this campus, as teammates and friends. And now, as more. It seems appropriate to make another moment now.

He leans down, pulls Bitty in by the shoulder, and stifles his sound of surprise with a kiss. Bitty’s lips are warm, despite the cold air, and when he presses closer, laying his hands on Jack’s chest, Jack’s warm all over. Bitty makes a soft sound, the kind Jack can’t get enough of. Jack breaks the kiss, but stays close, breath falling against Bitty’s kiss-pinked mouth. The cold and the kiss have flushed Bitty’s cheeks, and he’s beautiful. A flood of love fills Jack’s heart.

“Ready?” he asks.

Bitty nods. “Let’s head to Jerry’s, and then I’ll text the boys.”

Jack slings his arms around Bitty’s shoulders as they walk the few blocks to the restaurant. It’s a risk, but Jack has found that some things are well worth the risk.

* * *

**II. During Brunch**

“Y'all are a bunch of rats,” Bitty says with mock anger. “Making bets on us.”

“We had to do something to pass the time,” Lardo says with a shrug. “Waiting for you to say something.” She sips her coffee, looking oddly smug, and Bitty eyes her. There’s something different about her this morning, too, and frankly, Bitty’s far more interested in that than he is in the details of what his bros knew and when they knew it. All that matters now is that they knew, and they accepted, and they were just waiting for him and Jack to be ready. It’s more than Bitty could have hoped for. He wants to leap onto the table and wrap each of them in a big bear hug, one by one.

“So now that _we_ know _you_ know _we_ know,” Holster says, clearly relishing the phrase, “you have to tell us the whole story. How’d it happen, when’d it happen.”

“Oh, God,” Ransom says, rolling his eyes. “I’m gonna need more coffee.”

“Well,” Bitty says, “Last year at graduation–”

“You can’t start there,” Jack says.

“I can’t?”

“No, you have to start earlier than that.”

“Earlier? What’s earlier? That was our first–”

“The fall,” Jack prods. “The food seminar. The final project.”

“Oh, honey.” Bitty rolls his eyes. “I can’t start there, that’s just when I started–”

“It’s more or less when I started, too–”

“Now you’re just being _difficult_ –”

“Oh, God in heaven,” Shitty groans. “Now _I_ need more coffee.”

Ransom passes him the pot. “OK, we get it. Food seminar. Then graduation was where the magic happened.”

“Now that we have the timeline, how about the deets.” Holster punches the table with his last word. “Deets, bro.”

“All right, all right!” Bitty waves his hands. The giddy chaos of the moment is making his heart spin wildly. “What can I tell you? The short version is, it was graduation and this one–” he hooks a thumb toward Jack– “comes running into the Haus and plants one on me.”

Shitty whistles. “Jack, you Casanova.”

“It threw me for a loop, that’s for sure and certain,” Bitty asserts. He flushes. “But it was nice.”

“It _was_ nice,” Jack murmurs, stroking Bitty’s shoulder gently. Bitty glances at him. Oh, Lord. Jack is looking at him like that right in front of all his friends. Eyes all dark and soft and bright all at once. In the face of that gaze, Bitty finds it hard to look away, or think, or move. He gets caught, and they grin at each other, wordless, for eons. It’s dizzying and terrifying all at once, and Bitty can’t help but wonder – how many times have they done this before, getting caught in each other’s gaze, forgetting everyone else was there? No wonder all his friends bought a clue relatively early on.

“Anyway,” he goes on, trying to look away from Jack and failing utterly. “so we started Skyping, and Jack came down for the Fourth of July, and…” He blushes. “Well, by August we were officially official.”

“Boyfriends,” Jack says, still staring at him.

“Yeah,” Bitty echoes. “Boyfriends.”

And because he can, and because he wants to, he leans in and pecks Jack on the lips softly.

Okay, it’s a little more than a peck. It’s always hard to stop kissing Jack, but today it’s nearly impossible. Jack’s been looking at him with those bright eyes, and his arm’s been around Bitty all the time, just casually, and Bitty’s warm all over with the casual intimacy of it. He keeps the kiss chaste, but lets it linger – just a second and a half – before pulling away.

And then it hits him. Oh goodness. Oh, _goodness_. He just kissed a boy. In front of his friends. Like it’s no big deal. All his Southern propriety floods back in, and Bitty sinks back on the seat, cheeks flaming. His smile feels etched onto his face, though, and he doesn’t know how to banish it.

“Pfffff.” Lardo’s trying to suppress her giggle. “Adorable.”

Shitty is reaching for his napkin, then dabbing his eyes with it. “My bros.”

Holster has got his chin propped up on his hands and is grinning like he’s at the tail end of a 30 Rock marathon. Ransom has his face buried in a mug of coffee.

“Um,” Bitty says. “Sorry. I just–”

Lardo places a hand over his. “It’s cool, Bits,” she says. “Sometimes you just gotta let those feelings show.”

And once again, there’s something so different about the way she says it that Bitty forgets entirely about his own story. What is going on with this girl?

Well. If she could wait for him to say something, Bitty figures he can return the favor.

Oh, but wait, does that mean that she also – and Shitty’s here this morning – and – oh, _my._

He nods at her, grinning. “Sometimes you do.” 

* * *

**III. After Brunch**

“Are you sure you don’t want to come back to the Haus?” Bitty wheedles. “Just for a little nap?”

It’s very tempting. Jack’s pretty tired, and there’s nothing more attractive in the world than Bits all keyed up and working his Southern-boy charm. “You wouldn’t be able to sleep,” he says pointedly. “You’re too worked up.”

“But I could lie there with you,” Bitty points out, “and, you know, I could…” He nudges Jack’s shoulder, knocking him a step to the side.

Jack laughs. “You’re dangerous,” he says. “Trust me, Bits, I’d love to go home and _not_ nap with you. But I should really head back.”

“ _Should_ is the worst word in the world,” Bitty says. “ _Should_ s are never fun.”

“Haha. No, they’re not.” They round the corner to Jack’s car, parked along the back of the row of frats. It’s a seldom-traveled stretch of pavement, but the back windows of all the houses blink at them – chances at being seen, at being recognized. Jack pulls Bitty out into the street, puts the car between them and the frats. Not great coverage, but better than nothing.

He takes Bitty in his arms.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “You did so good today.”

“I – gosh, Jack,” Bitty murmurs. His hands are warm and soft against Jack’s neck, his hair tickling Jack’s chin as Jack presses soft kisses to the crown of his head. “All I did was say a couple of words.”

“They were big words.” Jack says. He squeezes Bitty tight. “You’ll come down later this week?”

“Yeah. Or–” Bitty pulls back, his eyes shining. “You could come up here again!”

“Bits.” Jack frowns. “We have more privacy at my place.”

Bitty chews on that thought. “Oh. You have a point, there, Mr. Zimmermann.” His brow is furrowed, but his eyes are bright with wicked ideas. The thought of dragging him back to the Haus and very deliberately _not_ napping sounds ever more appealing.

But in another moment, Bitty’s sobered up. “Thank you, Jack,” he says. “For today. For this. It was… a lot easier to have you there.”

“Of course.” Jack runs a hand up the nape of Bitty’s neck to his hairline, slides it forward to cup his jaw. “Text me, okay? Let me know what Chowder says.”

“I will. And we’ll talk tonight?” Jack nods. “Then bye, Jack. _Au revoir_.” The word still sounds a little wobbly on his tongue, but he’s getting better.

“ _Au revoir_ ,” Jack murmurs, and tilts his head down to kiss Bitty’s upturned lips.

Bitty melts against him, a wellspring of warmth against the chill of the day. Jack wraps him up in tight arms and lifts him – just a few inches off the ground, but worth it for the way Bitty gasps and tightens his grip on Jack’s shoulders. Jack licks into his mouth, relishing the taste of him, already missing it for the few days they’ll have to spend apart. Bitty whimpers. It’s a sound that carries, in this corridor between buildings, and maybe someone’s heard. Maybe someone’s already seen.

But the wheels are already turning in Jack’s head. He can handle it, if it happens. Tossing the dice just doesn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. After all, so far his luck has been spectacular.

They part, embrace again, and then say a final goodbye. Jack gets into the car and starts the engine. This journey of theirs isn’t over, not by a long shot. But today was a big step. Hope lifts his heart as he drives down the familiar roads of Samwell and eases onto the highway. 


	39. once in his life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty helps Jack and Bitty expand their horizons. 
> 
> VERY NSFW.
> 
> WARNING for dubcon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major content warning for drug-induced horniness/sex pollen (if it helps, they both want each other, the drug just helps them act on it). 
> 
> Also, this fic contains unsafe sex. The fic is a fantasy, meant to titillate, not instruct. Please be safe yourselves.

Shitty talked them into it. “Trust me,” he said, “it’ll be an experience. For once in your life, just once, try something that’ll open up your mind. Jack, I see you starting up with your straight-and-narrow talk. Just don’t. Once in your whole life, man. I promise it’ll be a learning experience.”

In the end, he sent them packing to their rooms, pills in hand. “You’ll want to start somewhere comfortable,” Shitty told them. “The effects can be a bit… ah… inconsistent from person to person. I’ll check on you in an hour or two.”

So now Bitty’s in his room, having taken a little white pill with some water, and is sitting on the bed waiting for the magic to happen. Nothing yet, except for a prickling heat coming over his skin. It’s not entirely comfortable. He shifts on the bed, fidgets, and expects pink elephants to show up any minute now.

Is Jack really going to take his pill? Bitty can’t believe he’d actually do it. If anyone could convince Jack, though, it’s probably Shitty. And Shitty wouldn’t hurt either of them. That much Bitty knows, and he’s sure Jack knows it too. Still, the thought of Jack actually taking a mind-altering drug is… hard to wrap his brain around. Not Jack. Disciplined, focused Jack. Intense, dedicated Jack with his hard blue eyes and his toned muscles and his miles of smooth skin and…

Oh, dear. It’s more than a prickle now. It’s a flood, a deluge of heat that’s got him sweating and clutching the bedsheets. Bitty gasps, open-mouthed, for breath. He feels like someone’s plunged him deep into the grittiest grind of the sultriest song on his playlist, and those sixteen bars are playing over and over deep within his blood. His heart is pounding the bass.

He’s hard, painfully hard, and his core is radiating with need. Somehow the word “skin” has lodged itself in his brain, and it’s all he can think about – soft fingers and hard muscles – the grazing of teeth against a thigh – Jack’s mouth coming down on his chest –

No, not Jack’s, anyone’s, just someone’s –

(But Jack’s…)

Bitty has been consumed by lust before, but this! This is so different. He can deal with horniness. All he has to do is lie on his bed and take care of himself. But that’s not what he wants right now. It’s not an orgasm he’s jonesing for, it’s closeness. He wants to be so close to someone he can smell him. He wants hands on his body, he wants a mouth on his mouth. He wants – God, he wants someone inside him so bad it hurts.

(Not someone. Jack. It’s been Jack for months now, endlessly, hopelessly. And dear Lord, Jack is so close, just across the hall–)

“Bittle.”

Okay, not across the hall. Jack’s _in his doorway._ Damn it. _DAMN IT._

“Jack…” Bitty curls up as small as he can get on the foot of his bed, putting as much distance as he can between him and the boy in his doorway. (God, help, Jack’s so gorgeous, he wants to get up and close the distance between them and just reach out and _touch.)_ He wants to say, _don’t get any closer._ He wants to say, _don’t come in._ Because if Jack does, Bitty doesn’t know what he’ll do. He doesn’t know what he’ll be able to stop himself from doing.

So he pushes his back against the wall, and he stares at Jack – the line of Jack’s shoulder, backlit by the hall light – the way his neck curves, the slow roll of a bead of sweat down his forehead…

Bitty sits on his hands.

“I’m going to kill Shitty,” Jack says, taking a step forward into the room, then halting, looking around.

“Not if I get to him first,” Bitty says, and means it.

Jack cocks his head. “What’s it doing to you?”

A fresh wave of heat nearly crumples Bitty. He leans forward, pulling his bent knees up to his chest. “I can’t— I can’t say it.”

“It’s making me… really hot.” Jack is pulling at his collar. His top two buttons are unbuttoned, and the glimpses of neck and chest are killing Bitty.

“Maybe you should just go back to your room?” he says, broken, not wanting it, wanting Jack closer. Wanting Jack on top of him.

“I thought…” Jack wanders forward, toward the bed. “I thought maybe i’d go out on the roof…”

Bitty’s brain calculates frantically. Going out to the roof means climbing over Bitty’s bed and through the window. And Bitty’s right there on the end of the bed, a whisper away from where Jack would have to be. Bitty clutches his bent knees. “W-why don’t you go out from your own room?” The quaver in his voice is shameful.

“I–” Jack comes closer, kneels on Bitty’s bed. He’s feet, no, inches away. One hand halfheartedly parts Bitty’s curtains, then falls. “I just thought I’d see how you were–”

He stops. His eyes meet Bitty’s. Bitty sees his Adam’s apple bob, a jerky swallow.

“Jack,” he starts, and he means to say _get off my bed,_ he really does….

Jack’s breathing hard. He lifts his hand again. This time, he doesn’t reach for the curtain.

Bitty feels Jack’s touch – fingertips against his cheek – like a splash of water on a hot day, like a cooling salve on an itch. He turns into it, puzzled, but then all at once Jack’s face is right there, and Jack’s murmuring something  against his jaw, the corner of his mouth–

Someone gives a soft whimper, and for once in his life Bitty doesn’t think it’s him.

Jack’s kiss sears Bitty through, a lick of flame plunging from his mouth to his gut. Oh God, oh, God, what’s happening, they’re kissing, Jack’s _kissing_ him… Jack’s kissing him and Jack’s hand is in his hair and he’s pushing Bitty back against the wall at the foot of his bed and Bitty can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but kiss back. God, he wants this so much. He wants Jack so much.

He can’t control his body. He can’t stop himself from grabbing Jack by the arms, pulling him in as Jack licks into his mouth in hot, sure strokes. His breath is warm, the scent of him all dark and sweet and smoky. Jack’s body feels better than Bitty ever could have imagined, all that weight and muscle pinning Bitty up against the wall. Bitty sinks beneath him, sliding them down to the bed, letting Jack climb on top of him. He parts his legs and wraps them around Jack’s waist, squeezing. Jack groans against his mouth. The feel of Jack’s voice vibrating against him – Bitty’s going to go up in flames.

“Bittle.” Jack’s saying his name between kisses. “Bitty. I can’t… I have to…”

And Bitty’s melting and burning, and he only says, “Yes, Jack, yes.”

This is what he needs, what he’s been itching for. Jack’s touch and kiss are converting all that unbearable heat to the kind of warmth he wants to soak himself in, get lost in for days. Everywhere Jack’s touched him – and Jack’s touching him everywhere now, on shoulders, sides, hips, thighs – is singing. But where Jack hasn’t touched him yet, Bitty’s still burning up. He wriggles beneath Jack, easing his T-shirt off between frantic kisses. As soon as it’s off, Jack lifts his head, grips Bitty’s waist and slides his hands up Bitty’s stomach to his chest, groaning like he’s the one getting touched. His thumb brushes Bitty’s nipple. Electricity zings from that spot to Bitty’s spine, then down to his cock. He seizes up and cries out.

“I need to,” Jack mumbles. His fingers shake as they fumble at his buttons. Bitty reaches up and helps. They stare at each other as they go, wordless, lost in amazement, drug-addled heat only matched by disbelief. Jack bites his lip and frowns. “I can’t help–” he says, and swallows. “I’m sorry, I don’t–”

Bitty yanks Jack’s now-open shirt apart.  “Get back down here,” he orders.

Jack mutters something in French, fights with his shirt until it’s finally shrugged off, and closes the gap between them again.

If Jack’s hands on his chest were amazing, Jack’s chest against his chest is a miracle. Bitty cries out again, long and quavering instead of short and sharp like before. The sound of it, echoing in the small room, turns him on impossibly more. He grinds his hips into Jack’s, groaning at the friction against his cock. “Jack,” he whispers. His fingers trace patterns in Jack’s back, then sharpen, nails biting into skin. “Jack, oh my God, I want– I want you– I want you.” Over and over, the whispers flutter into the air. “I want you, I want you.”

“Bitty.” The name, so unfamiliar in Jack’s voice, is crushed between their mouths. “Bitty. _Dieu_.”

Is it the drug that’s making everything so perfect? Or is it Bitty’s feelings for Jack, elevating everything to the level of a religious experience? Bitty doesn’t understand at all what’s happening, he just knows he never wants it to stop. He still itches, though – the backs of his knees, his ankles, and oh, God, _inside_ him – he needs Jack there like he needs water and air. The words – filthy, filthy words, things he never imagined himself saying – are rising up through his throat, and he doesn’t think he can stop them.

“Jack,” he babbles, “Jack, Jack, please… please fuck me.”

“Fuck,” Jack breathes. Bitty’s not sure if he’s echoing or saying it himself. Jack’s mouth is on his too quickly for him to ask.

Jack licks into his mouth with long, hot swipes of tongue. Bitty’s crying out, grinding hard against him, wanting beyond want. Jack’s hands are riding up his thighs now, taking firm hold of his ass, pulling them together – his cock a hard insistent push against the cleft of Bitty’s ass – and that’s it, Bitty isn’t going to stand it another minute. He pushes with all his might, sitting himself up, pushing Jack back onto his knees. “One– one sec,” he murmurs, pressing kisses against soft lips. His whole body goes white-hot with need the minute he steps back off the bed.

His shorts hit the floor in a rush. Drawer – lube – quick strokes – Jack in the background groaning and shucking off his slacks – a mess of fuzzy time Bitty doesn’t feel or remember, because nothing is real until he’s back on the bed with Jack on top of him, kissing him again, running hands over his sides, gripping his hips –

– and pushing into him and oh, this, this is where the world begins.

It can’t just be the drugs. The feeling of this – of Jack in him, filling him, completing him – it’s so much more than any substance, no matter how psychedelic, could possibly  induce. Heat is rushing through Bitty’s veins, making his fingers prickle, setting him alight in a thousand different places. Everywhere Jack’s touching him, he feels like the earth trembling. Jack’s hand cupped around his hip; his mouth, hot against Bitty’s shoulder; his legs, warm muscle tucked against Bitty’s own.

He needs more. Even as the fullness overwhelms him, he needs more. He rocks forward, back again. Jack gives a delirious groan behind him. He does it again. “Come on,” he whispers, and Jack responds, tries a hesitant thrust of his own. It’s so good Bitty has to bite his lips to keep from shouting. Jack groans a low _yeah._

Bitty drags his fingernails against the bedsheets. “Come on, Jack,” he begs, out of his head with want. “Come on, _more.”_

Whatever remains of Jack’s control dissolves, and he’s pushing, rocking inside Bitty at a frenetic pace. Bitty feels swallowed up by Jack’s body, enveloped totally by him, and it’s still not enough. He lifts his legs, spreads them, lets Jack rock into him deeper. His cock is dragging against Jack’s stomach, leaking. He’s dizzy. He no longer knows if he’s on the bottom or on top. Gravity doesn’t seem to be working.

“Bitty,” Jack whispers, and kisses him, bites at his lips,  “Fuck.” Something in French.

Bitty cards his fingers through Jack’s hair. “Yes,” he murmurs, and “more.”

Jack gives him more. Jack gives him everything. Jack fucks him desperately, as though they don’t have time, as though the world’s about to end. But never, never, not once does Bitty feel as though he’s an object, an outlet, anything but a full and real person. Maybe it’s the way Jack’s fingers keep dragging against his skin, long caresses. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps saying his name. It keeps Bitty present, it keeps him alive. Jack _wants_ him, and even if it’s a drug-induced delusion – even if Jack looks at him tomorrow with regret – Bitty will keep it in his memory forever. Once in his life, he had this.

He comes with a shout, seeing sunbursts, waves of feeling rocking him to his core. Above him, Jack groans and stiffens, and Lord, Bitty can feel it – the rush of heat, the wetness, Jack’s spine arching as he presses Bitty into the bed. He wraps his arms around Jack and holds him through it. “Good, baby,” he whispers, not knowing where the words are coming from. “So good.”

They lie there, panting, for a full minute before realizing they’re sticky with sweat. Jack rolls off him. Bitty stares at the ceiling and tries to catch his breath.

The heat’s gone now –  at least, the drug-induced heat that had flooded his system before. Jack’s fucked him clean of it, and now he feels as normal as a boy can feel who’s just had his very first time. His heart thuds, and he feels a smile creeping over his face. “Oh, Lord,” he breathes, “that was…”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says.

Bitty blinks.

Jack sits up on the bed and puts his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I couldn’t– I couldn’t help myself.”

Bitty hoists himself up, fighting the rush of dizziness as he rises. He presses his head against Jack’s bare back, arms circling his waist. “Honey, don’t be,” he murmurs. “Please. I’m not.”

“The drugs,” Jack says. “I’d never–”

The word _never_ sends a chill through Bitty. He sits back “Jack, it’s okay. We can just pretend it never happened, if you want. I–”

“No,” Jack says. He sighs. His face is angled downward, looking at the floor of Bitty’s room. “No, I can’t pretend that. I–”

“Bitty! You okay in there? Have you seen Jack?”

The words – Shitty’s – come floating through the door along with a sharp rap. Bitty yelps. “Don’t come in!” he says. “I’m fine. Jack– Jack – Jack’s – I think he went for a walk?”

“Yeah, okay,” Shitty says. “That fucker would. He’s probably running down along the river. That shit’s supposed to give you the _cojones_ to do what you really want to do, and for Jack it’s probably exercise. I’m surprised you’re not in the kitchen.”

Bitty forces a laugh, but his head is spinning.  “I’m just gonna sleep it off,” he shouts. Shitty murmurs some agreement against the door of the room, and Bitty listens to his footsteps as they decrescendo against the wood.

Jack has been tense through the exchange. Now, with Shitty retreating, he heaves another sigh. “ _Cojones,_ eh?” he says, a little laugh escaping on the tail end of the words.

Bitty stares at him. Jack’s profile in the dim light is beautiful, sharp and noble, with a small smile curling on his lips. “Jack,” he says carefully, “did you– did you want this? Did you want _me_?”

“Uh.” Jack’s eyes dart back and forth, as though he’s searching for an escape. At last, he sighs and turns to face Bittle. “I tried not to think about it.” He licks his lips. “I thought we should – at least, until I graduated, and I thought you probably didn’t–”

Bitty leans in and kisses him. Soft, brief, decisive.

“I did,” he says. “I do.”

The mattress creaks, and a rush of warm skin envelops Bitty. Jack’s holding him, tight. Jack’s arms are around him, and Jack’s face is tucked into his neck, and Bitty’s on the verge of tears all of a sudden. He wraps his arms around Jack’s shoulders, leans forward, and breathes in the scent of him. Jack feels even more like home than Bitty thought he would. For seconds, maybe minutes, they just hold each other, reveling in the rightness of it all.

“I guess Shitty was right,” Jack says, his breath a warm, welcome puff against Bitty’s shoulder. “Doesn’t hurt to open up our minds once in our lives.”

“Mm-hm,” Bitty murmurs. “But once was enough.”

“Yeah.” Jack lays a kiss against his shoulder.  “Bittle, we’ve got so much we need to talk about.”

“I know, honey, I know.” Bitty sighs and burrows further into Jack’s embrace. “Later.”

They settle back down on Bitty’s bed. Bitty cracks the window open, and the night air whispers cooling caresses against their bodies. Curled together, fingers interlaced, they doze. Tomorrow they’ll wake to reality. For tonight, they’re still lost in the dream.


	40. the difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are different now that Jack and Bitty are out to the team. 
> 
> A little NSFWness in this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Annundriel, who is unforgettable.

The difference is immediate. Jack feels it as he parks, pulls the duffel bag out of his car, and mounts the Haus steps. The weight on his shoulder is new, but so is the light in his heart. He’s coming to stay. For the first time, he’s coming to stay overnight with Bitty. And that makes everything different.

Bitty meets him at the door, in oven mitts. “Goodness, Jack,” he says. “You’re early, honey! I’m not done with the mini cakes.”  His hair is ruffled, his grin huge and his eyes full of light. Jack wants to kiss him. He’s used to the feeling – the tugging at his abdomen, the itch in his fingers. The anticipation of Bitty’s sweet mouth, honey and velvet, beneath his own.

The difference is, this time he doesn’t have to restrain it.

He drops his duffel to the floor, steps into the Haus and kicks the door closed behind him. Bitty’s warm in his arms, sweet against his lips. The puff of the oven mitts against his chest is a sensation that’s uniquely Bitty, soft but firm. Jack licks into his mouth, and a taste of chocolate cake batter lingers on his tongue as he pulls away. “You’ve been licking the spoon,” he guesses.

“I’ve been _testing the recipe,”_ Bitty corrects, his eyes sparkling as he leads Jack by the hand into the kitchen. “I saved the spoon for you.” 

“Jack!” A rumble of footsteps sound as Ransom and Holster descend the stairs. A hundred hellos and how-you-doings later, Jack’s in the middle of a crowd of Hausmates in the middle of the kitchen. Bitty darts like a dragonfly among them all, weaving this way and that to clean up his ingredients as Jack fields questions and is drawn into back-slapping hugs. As promised, Bitty handing his wooden spoon to Jack for licking. The batter is divine, smooth and just rich enough. It’s a promising preview of the tiny cakes now rising in the oven.

Jack is surprised how much he _doesn’t_ itch to get Bitty behind closed doors. Because he doesn’t. He still wants to kiss Bitty to distraction, lay him down on the bed and take him apart piece by piece, but that can wait. This – staying by his side among friends, smiling at him, fully enjoying the glowing grin he gets back…. _this_ is new. And it’s thrilling. He wants to linger in the comfort and ease of it all. When Bitty groans at a joke he makes, intones a pitying “Bless you heart,” and pecks him on the cheek —  right in front of everyone — Jack thinks his happiness is going to form a balloon and buoy him to the ceiling.

After the cakes are done and laid out on the table to cool, they all go out for dinner. For the first time since the Haus door closed, Jack and Bitty need to hide a little. Above the table, they’re a chaste distance apart; beneath it Bitty’s legs angle toward his, their ankles brushing in a whisper of a secret touch.. Still, this is different – while the waitstaff and the other patrons can’t know, everyone crowded around this table is in on the secret. When a waitress comes by and takes a second appreciative look at Jack, the guys don’t urge him to slip her his phone number on a napkin. Instead, when she walks away with their orders in hand, they shake their heads and sigh. “Sorry,” they mock-shout, “he’s taken!”

Jack squeezes Bitty’s hand under the table. He likes being taken.

When they head home, the cakes are cooled and ready for frosting. Jack leaps into action, by now an efficient sous chef to Bitty’s master baker. As the boys salivate over the dessert preparations, Lardo stands in the kitchen doorway and admires his handiwork. “Nice, Jack. You got good at that.”

“I’ve had some practice lately,” Jack says.

Ransom’s eyes roll, and Holster nudges Jack with a knowing nod. “I bet you’ve been practicing plenty of things up in Providence.”

“Oh,” Jack says, glancing at Bitty with a smile, “this and that.”

It’s a thrill to say it, a thrill to see Holster blush and Ransom sputter. Getting chirped over a love interest is nothing new – Jack’s dealt with it for years, with this and that Winter Screw date and so on. Whenever the guys started murmuring about him and Kate, or Samantha, or Camilla, Jack denied everything flatly. This time, he doesn’t have to. He can nod and smile and make a suggestive comment of his own. It’s brand new, and it’s great.

Bitty shuttles the cakes into the refrigerator to help the frosting set, and everyone settles in the den to watch a movie while they wait. Ransom, Holster and Lardo commandeer the couch; Chowder, who’s come home while everyone was out at dinner (“You guys keep forgetting to tell me you’re going places!”), plonks on the floor on his stomach, face too close to the screen. Jack settles cross-legged on the floor behind him, and Bitty sits beside Jack, for just a minute. But the opening credits are still playing when Bitty thinks better of it and eases himself into Jack’s lap.

And Jack’s had a lapful of Bitty before, but not like this – not with their friends arrayed around them. Alone, when they’re tucked together in front of the TV in his apartment, he often dots little kisses along Bitty’s shoulder and neck, reaches down to stroke at his thighs and between, until Bitty’s panting and whatever they’re watching is forgotten. But here, Jack has to be careful and modest with his hands and mouth. And it’s killing him a little. Bitty’s hips are solid and warm nestled against him, and he wiggles whenever something exciting happens on the screen, nestles into Jack’s embrace when the movie gets romantic. As happy as Jack is to be here, showing casual affection with the guys around, his patience is starting to thin.

He may not be the only one. Bitty’s shoulder is lined up just under Jack’s chin, and when Jack breathes against it Bitty gives a shiver. Jack tilts his head toward Bitty’s neck, exhaling again. Bitty’s breath hitches.

“Want to go upstairs for a while?” Jack murmurs into his ear.

Bitty’s body reacts before he answers. A shudder, a quick inhale, and he leans back against Jack’s chest. “Yes,” Bitty murmurs, “yes I think that’s a good idea.”

He stands. Jack follows. Bitty mumbles an “Excuse us,” and they retreat up the stairs hand-in-hand to the sound of wolf whistles from below.

In the room, slamming the door closed, and this, at least, is just the same no matter whether they’re in Providence or Samwell – that moment of glorious aloneness when they’ve been itching to touch for far too many minutes. Jack opens to Bitty’s warm kisses. He drags Bitty to the bed. The whole world narrows to the sensation of Bitty climbing into his lap and rolling down against him, the hard line of Bitty’s erection, the sweet rain of Bitty’s kisses on Jack’s lips and his hands in Jack’s hair.

“Oh ,honey,” Bitty murmurs, “honey, honey, honey.”

“Needed you alone.” Jack’s breathing comes fast and shallow. “Couldn’t wait.”

“Yes. Me too.” Bitty’s hair is a soft tousle beneath his fingertips, and he keens when Jack tugs.. “Yes.”

“We should hurry.” Jack smiles against Bitty’s chin, then mouths at his neck. “They’ll come check on us.”

“Mm-hm.” Bitty reaches for his shirt. “Let’s hurry.”

And _that’s_ something they’ve never had to do before. The privacy of Jack’s apartment is absolute. But this time, there are people moving downstairs, and talking, and probably listening a little too. They’ll have to be fast, and they’ll have to be quiet. It’s exciting, and they’re grinning and shushing each other as they wriggle out of their clothes, nothing but soft rasps of breath and stifled grunts in the air as they take care of the necessary things. When Jack reaches out and circles his palm around Bitty’s cock, Bitty lets out a groan that he quickly buries in the crook of Jack’s shoulder. And when Bitty mounts him, heat slick and perfect around him, Jack has to hide an answering groan against Bitty’s pink-flushed neck.

Bitty buries his head in Jack’s neck, trails kisses up his jaw to his mouth. They move carefully together, controlled, trying not to go too fast too soon. The bed creaks under their combined weight. They shush each other, then laugh again. A shout from downstairs tells them nobody’s listening. They let the bed creak again.

Bitty turns on top of him, presses his back against Jack’s chest and pulls Jack’s hand onto his cock. “Please,” he murmurs. Jack watches, fascinated by the way Bitty moves on him like this. The press of his toned body. The way he cranes his neck. The beautiful line of a bare shoulder, the muscled pull of his abs and back. All this is his, and he can have it, here in the Haus that will always be theirs. Here, with the support of his friends buoying him, he can have love.

He’s coming before he even realizes it’s happening, and he has to bite back his shout, whisper-sobbing an _ahhh_ into the air as shakes wrack his body. He doubles his efforts on Bitty’s cock, even as his stuttering thrusts into Bitty’s hips gentle down. Bitty cries out, and Jack doesn’t try to shush him this time. Let them hear. Only Jack gets to see, gets to feel as Bitty goes rigid for an endless moment, then comes with Jack’s name a barely restrained whisper on his lips.

They kiss, clean up, dress again. Jack’s shaking with happiness. He pulls Bitty into his arms as soon as they’re fully clothed, kissing him thoroughly. Bitty murmurs a “honey” into his mouth. Jack tastes the word on his tongue like it _is_ made of honey.

Then, abruptly, Bitty stiffens. “Oh!” he cries out, pushing Jack to arm’s length. “The cakes!!!”

Laughing, he hurries downstairs, Jack on his tail. Together they rescue the forgotten desserts from the refrigerator and shuttle them into the den, where the movie is coming to a dramatic close.

Ransom licks his lips at the sight of the cakes. Holster visibly salivates. But Lardo cocks her head and has a peering look at the servers instead. “Have a nice time up there?” she asks.

“Lardo, you perv,” says Holster out of one corner of his mouth. Drool is still coming from the other corner.

“What?” She shrugs. “It’s obvious. Look at them grinning.”

Jack’s hand flies to his face. He is grinning. Not just smiling – grinning, like a cat who’s just had a buffet of canaries. And he can’t banish it, no matter how hard he tries.

So he stops trying. Embracing the grin, he settles back down onto the floor. He and Bitty share a mini-cake, forks dueling on the plate when they reach the final bite. Afterward, Jack volunteers to clean up. Ransom and Chowder follow him into the kitchen, peppering him with questions about the Falcs as they go. Bitty, Lardo, and Holster remain in the den, capping the evening with a trio of beers.

It feels like old times, a night at the Haus with the dingy old couch sagging and the TV blaring. Conversation and chirps, powered by Bitty’s sweets, echo off the hallway walls until deep into the night. Just like it used to be a year ago.

When it’s time for everyone to climb the stairs to bed, though, he and Bitty go up hand-in-hand. It’s not exactly new to climb into this bed with Bitty for the night – they’ve done it once before, but that night hung heavy with the weight of decisions around them, and now the air is light with joy.

And the difference is, when he wakes up in the morning, he’s free to curl his body around Bitty’s and let the morning drag on. They’ve got nothing to hide.


	41. owned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lardo owns Shitty. Always has, always will.
> 
> (A way Shitty might have found out about Jack and Bitty. Also, Shitty/Lardo romance.)

 “Aw, my room! My old digs!” Shitty declares as Lardo pulls him by the cuff of his sleeve through the doorway. “I’m gonna cry. Good to see you, old mattress. Hallo, old desk–”

“Shits.” He glances at Lardo and promptly loses the feeling of nostalgia. She is leveling him with a death glare. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“Did what?”

She gestures in a vague direction that probably means _downstairs._ “Got all up in Jack’s face.”

“Look,” Shitty starts, “he’s been–”

She rolls her eyes. “Shouting _girlfriend_ at him. Jeez.” 

“Lards.” Shitty grabs the edge of the bed to keep from clawing his own brains out. “He’s been driving me crazy. Fucking crazy. I’m telling you, there’s no way that beautiful bastard doesn’t have a girlfriend. No fucking way.”

“Oh, really?” She’s lobbing him a sidelong grin now, and it’s throwing Shitty for a loop.

He tries to reorient. “You seriously don’t think he does?”

“Shits,” she starts.

“No. No, hang on, we’ve talked about this, you and I. We’ve discussed this. All his freaky disappearances and the way he’s texting constantly and getting these little creepy smiles on his face, and you’re gonna tell me there’s some other reason? You seriously think he’s not dating someone?”

Her shoulders shake, and she bites her lip, like she’s holding back a laugh. “That’s not what I said.”

Shitty’s lost the thread completely. “What?”

Lardo sighs and walks a few steps toward him. She plants herself right in front of him, looking up with the determined face of a schoolmarm about to impart one hell of a lesson. Shitty trembles a little.

“What I said,” she says slowly, putting emphasis on each word, “is that I don’t think he. Has. A. **_GIRL._** Friend.”

Shitty just blinks.

Lardo sighs and smacks a palm to her forehead. “Shits. Did you or did you not accost him as he was coming downstairs with Bitty?”

“What? Yeah…”

“He was upstairs with Bitty.” She pauses. “For a _long_ time.”

“What does that have to do with–”

And then the heavens part and the angels begin to sing. Shitty boggles. He stares at Lardo, waiting for silent confirmation. He gets it in the slightest upturn of the corners of her mouth.

He explodes. “NO. Oh God, NO.”

“Yeah.”

“NO. Jack and– and Bitty?”

“Shh.” She glances at the doorway. “Chyeah.”

“But he’s not —” oh, but that’s not fair, he can’t assume– “but they don’t–” but Jack in the kitchen at all hours and sitting next to Bittle on roadies and– “but holy SHIT! Holy fucking SHIT!” He cards a hand into his hair, grabs a tuft, nearly pulls it out. “Wait. Wait. Wait. How do you know? I mean, for sure? Did Bitty say something–?”

She shakes her head. “Naw. But it’s not so hard to put together. He’s Skyping _someone_ every night, late sometimes. And sneaking away for a day or two all the time.”

“And Jack’s texting all the fucking time, and can’t ever talk in the evening and–” The pieces fit together so well, Shitty feels like an idiot for not seeing it himself. “Holy shit, Lards. Holy shit, they’re an item. They’re together.”

“Mm-hm.” She sits on the desk chair, crossing her legs and looking pleased with herself.

Shitty paces in the room, hands still buried in his hair. “Jack and Bitty. Bitty and Jack. WOW. But how did – how do–”

“I know, right?” Lardo says. “I’m dying to know.”

“But they– they _hated_ each other–” Shitty lets go of his poor frazzled hair and gestures wildly in front of him instead. “Okay, okay, so that only lasted like half a year. But they’re– Jack was so… but I guess he isn’t that much anymore, and I guess Bitty– well, Bitty has an effect on everybody– Shit. Now I wish I’d thought to fix them up. If I had any clue that Jack was into dudes, I could’ve–”

“Nah.” Lardo stretches in the chair. “I’m pretty sure with those two it had to happen a certain way or not at all. Sometimes people gotta grow into it. But it’s cute, right? They’re good for each other.”

“I– I guess.” Shitty sighs and leans against the bedpost. “I guess some people are just … yeah, like you put it. Good for each other.”

“Mm-hm.” Lardo turns toward her laptop. It’s buried among a flood of papers, some drawings, some Lardo’s version of class notes, which are crazy angular things separated out by lines and circles and half-drawn torsos of unidentifiable men. Among the drawings are printouts of digital patterns that Lardo somehow created from scratch with mystifying software. Canvases lean up against the wall by the desk. Some of them are larger than she is, but none of them dwarf her. She’s the queen of her domain, sitting at that desk, surrounded by all the wild creations created by that sharp mind and tiny body. Shitty’s twice as glad right now that he gave her dibs. She doesn’t just live in this room, she owns it.

“Like you and me,” he says, almost without meaning to. His voice comes out hoarse, scratchy.

“Wha?” She tilts her head, turns back toward him.

“I mean,” he goes on, looking for the words, “you pretty much saved my ass out there. I was on track to make a damn fool of myself. So. You know. Thanks for pulling me back from the brink.”

“Oh.” Lardo shrugs. “Yeah. Sure.”

“See, that too.” Shitty points at her. “That way you are, so low-key about everything. I fucking need that. I get so worked up about shit. You’re just good for me, Lards. I dunno if I’ve ever said that to you.”

There’s a rose tint to her cheeks now that Shitty doesn’t think he’s seen before. It’s new, that tint on her face. Fresh and lovely. A pang of want hits him then, so hard he almost winces with it. She doesn’t notice. “Pff. Come on, Shits. That’s what I’m here for. You don’t have to make a thing about it.”

“No, no, maybe I do.” He takes a step forward, cocks a hip against her desk. “Maybe I fucking do, Lards. Maybe I haven’t ever told you how fucking much you mean to me. Maybe I’ve been so wrapped up in trying to decipher Jack’s love life, I haven’t paid enough attention to what’s happening right in front of my face.”

The rose darkens to red. “Shitty, come on. You’re still sloshed.”

“I’m not.” And he’s not, really. But he’s got a heart full of churning warmth right now and he’s got to do something with it. “C’mon. You can’t tell me you never think about it. Me and you.”

“I–” She averts her eyes. “Sure. Sure, I think about it.”

“And?” He drops to a squat, crouching on the floor, looking up at her. It’s suddenly incredibly hard not to reach out and take her hands. Damn. Damn, he’s been so fucking blind, and she’s so incredible. She fits in his room like she fits in his life – that is, she doesn’t just fit. She owns. She’s had a piece of his soul longer than he’s known it, and he’s so moved by that revelation, he’s close to tears with it.

“And… nothing, I don’t know, Shits, we’re buds. I didn’t want to mess with that.” Her voice is low, but there’s just enough fire behind her words to make his heart lurch with hope.

He lifts a hand to whisper a soft touch along her jaw. She steels herself against it, but doesn’t flinch or pull away. As he moves his hand into her hairline, she takes a shuddering breath.

He shifts to his knees, gets eye-to-eye with her. “Lardo,” he says, soft, careful, “I’m gonna kiss you now. Okay?”

She looks at him through half-lidded eyes. Her voice is a bare breath. “…Okay.”

Shitty takes a moment, just a moment, to look at her – eyes closing; lashes a soft, even fringe on her tinted cheeks; chin tilted up expectantly – and his heart thumps in his chest. He leans forward and tastes her lips – careful, sweet and whisper-soft. He can feel the soft impression of her lips, a perfect O, against his. It’s over too soon.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Wow,” he says. “So, yeah. Wow, Wondered a lot what that’d be like.”

She’s smiling. “Shits.”

“Hm?”

Without saying another word, she slides off her chair and straddles him, forcing him back onto his ass on the floor. Her legs coil around his waist, her hands twine at the back of his neck, and she’s kissing him again, hard and full this time. He has to snort a soft laugh into the kiss – like everything else, she owns this too. As though he could have expected anything else. Wrapping his arms around her, he joyfully surrenders.


	42. first frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First frost is not Bitty's favorite time of year.

Bitty pads down the hall toward the kitchen, shivering. This morning is cold – the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, deep and biting. He likes winter enough; he just doesn’t like the start of winter, that sudden dive in temperature that makes you feel as though you went to bed on Earth but have woken up on Pluto. Sighing, he braces himself for the tiled floor and steps into the kitchen.

Even through his socks, the cold reaches up to grab him. He hugs himself and gazes out the window. Crystal patterns have laced themselves against the edges of the pane and rendered them opaque, like stained glass. It’s pretty. Bitty traces a finger along the line of one whorl, then pulls his finger back; pressed against the inside of his arm, it’s colder than the rest.

Where the window’s clear, he tilts his head and gazes outside. The yellow-green blades of grass in the lawn have been painted over with white, and the yard glitters.

Movement upstairs, some unintelligible words. Bitty dutifully spoons out some coffee grounds and starts the machine. He’s not sure he’s ready to deal with everyone; mornings are not his favorite time of day, and cold mornings are worse. He kneels on a chair, tucking his feet under his butt, and listens to the machine drip sweet caffeine into the pot.

“Brrr!”

“Fuck, it’s cold!”

“Fuck my fucking ass, it’s cold.”

“Hot chocolate time.”

“Definitely hot chocolate time.”

“Morning, Lardo!”

“Morning, boys. Fuck, it’s cold.”

“Did you guys see!?!? It’s all frosty!!!”

“Hells, yeah. Cocoa tiiiime!”

And so much for the coffee. Bitty should get up and put the kettle on for cocoa. He will. In a sec. As soon as he can move.

“Biiiiits.” Ransom’s smiling face is the first to peek through the kitchen door. His smile fades in an instant. “Oh, fuck me,  you look miserable. SOMEONE GRAB A BLANKET FOR BITS!”

“What?” From Holster, from halfway up the steps.

“I got one,” hollers Lardo. “Sit tight, Bits!”

And now there’s a maelstrom whirling around Bitty. Chowder’s blazing through the kitchen, pulling things out of the cabinets, and Ransom’s at the stove, and in another minute Lardo’s appeared with a blanket that appears to be about twice her size. The next thing Bitty knows, he’s wrapped up like the world’s puniest burrito, and the kettle is on and Holster’s slapping his back, going on about something called a “hobo mocha.”

“…fucking brilliant that the coffee’s already on, because shit, it’s good stuff if you just want a little sweet in your caffeine, ya know?” At this, the teakettle whistles. Bitty jumps up automatically, but Ransom’s already there, pulling the kettle off the boil and filling a line of mugs arrayed on the counter.

Bitty’s at once incredibly aware of everything going on around him. “Y'all, you shouldn’t be– I made– I ought to make breakfast–”

Holster’s hand on his shoulder is heavy enough to force him back down onto the chair. “It’s first frost of the season,” he says solemnly. “We know today’s a hard day for you. We got this.”

“I– wait– wait a minute,” Bitty tries to protest, “this is my third year here, I can handle–”

A pop sounds on the counter. Bitty jumps.

“Cinnamon raisin?” Chowder says, taking something out of the toaster.

Bitty turns, and his eyes widen. “I– did you– where did bagels come from?”

Chowder shrugs and grins. “You want cream cheese?”

And no, he doesn’t want cream cheese, Bitty wants to _cry_ is what he wants, because his friends are being so spectacular and now the kitchen is warm with all their body heat. The window’s still traced over with crystal, but the morning sun is bright enough to pierce it now, and little white stars are projected all along the kitchen floor, like decorations for a holiday party.

Maybe that’s what this is, at least a little.

He smiles and tsks at Chowder. “Butter. Of _course_. And Holster, I suppose I’m gonna have to try your hobo mocha…”


	43. if you're cool with it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty/Lardo. The prompt: "crunching leaves."

She’s a visual artist, not a musician. But Lardo almost wishes she could read music or play the drums, just to capture the rhythm of the leaves crunching under their feet. Shitty’s stride is a little longer than hers, his footfalls coming just ahead or just behind, then evening out, then going all jagged again. Somehow they’re managing to walk side by side despite the uneven fall of their feet, crunching their way through the Harvard quad toward Shitty’s dorm.

“I’m gonna make a sculpture,” she muses, looking down at her boots. “Make leaves out of aluminum or something. Plaster them all over a pair of shoes. All bent and shit.”

“That sounds wild.” Shitty’s face is upturned toward the wind, his cheeks rosy with it. “Not your usual aesthetic, though, is it?”

She shrugs. “Why not? It’s Harvard bro aesthetic instead of Samwell, that’s all. Look at those guys.” She gestures to a group of designer-flannel-laden underclassmen, bundled up and laughing beneath one of the great maple trees that shadow that corner of the quad.  One of them has a leaf sitting atop his beanie, and he seems completely unaware of it. 

Shitty shrugs. “Hey, if it fits your vision, man.”

“Right.” They walk along in silence again, and the rhythm of the leaves starts up, a comforting refrain in her ears. There’s something nice about this – naw, she thinks with a widening smile, there’s _everything_ nice about this. Just her and Shits, side by side, in the fall weather. Lardo tries not to get too excited about things, because once she goes, she _goes_ … but this is too nice for her not to thoroughly enjoy.

“So you’re still cool with coming to that mixer tonight?” Shitty breaks the silence with a look down at her. “If I hadn’t promised Philip. God, I’m friends with a guy named Philip.“ He groans.

“It’s fine,” Lardo assures him. “When else do I get to wear a dress? S’cool.”

“OK, because if you’re not good with it, we could–” 

“It’s fine,” she says again. 

Shitty lets a beat go by. And then he stops moving – breaks the rhythm of the leaves – and Lardo finds herself halting a step ahead, confused. She turns. “Shits?”

He’s standing there, hand on his head like he’s got an itch to scratch, his cheeks rosy from the cold. His mustache twitches. “So, Lards,” he starts.

“Hm?” She takes a step back, meets him face to face – or as close as they can get, considering. “Sup?”

“At the mixer…” And maybe, this close up, she can see that the rosy tint to his cheeks isn’t all from the cold. “What’d you think if, you know… when I introduced you… if I called you my girlfriend?”

Lardo takes in a breath of cold air and holds it. There’s a balloon in her heart ready to burst.

“I mean.” Shitty hangs his head. “Ya know, I know that you’re not _my_ anything, and labels are gross, but just for… you know, convenience and shit. To sort of… sum up our relationship.” He’s shuffling his feet, and the leaves are making a ruckus beneath his shoes. “Not that our relationship’s any of anyone’s business anyway, but… if you’re cool with it…”

She steps forward, hearing the crunch beneath her boots. She rises to her toes. And she reaches out to drag his mouth down to hers.

He makes a muffled noise into the kiss, the sound even more muted through his mustache. She tries not to laugh. His kiss is warm, his breath still sweet from the coffee they’d had at that little shop outside the T station. The balloon of contentedness that had been bobbing in her heart has moved up to her throat, and it tightens there, a lump of emotion. She swallows it down and lets him go.

“Cool,” she says. “You can totally call me your girlfriend.”

He lights up. “Really? You’re not grossed out? I mean, I don’t want you to think that _I_ think I own you or something.“

“Pssh.” She rolls her eyes and hooks her arm around his. “I said it was cool. And, you know…” She shrugs.

He looks down at her. “I know?”

The smile itching at her lips won’t be tamed. “If you decide you like it, I’m cool with you saying it other places too.” 

“Oh.” He reddens. “Oh. Cool, then.”

“Yeah.” Leaning on his arm, they walk off through the leaves toward the dorm. “Cool.”


	44. FLANNEL THO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the prompt was flannel. anyone and everyone, just flannel. I had a bit of fun.

**SMH Unofficial Fan Forum >> Miscellaneous**

**Subj:** FLANNEL THO.

Guys guys guys I just saw Jack Zimmermann walking down River Quad with that sophomore whose name I can never remember, but that’s not the important part, the important part is HE WAS WEARING RED FLANNEL AND I’M GOING TO DIE.

He looked SO GOOD.

Petition to have the whole team dress up in flannel for like a fall festival or something. #flannelkegster??

–Emily

* * *

Co-signed!!

Jesus, could you imagine Birkholtz in flannel? He would seriously look like Paul Bunyan. Six foot 19 of HOT. 

Cara B. ‘17

* * *

Birkholtz and Oluransi both. Birkholtz and Oluransi in matching flannel. Birkholtz and Oluransi wearing EACH OTHER’S flannel.

What color, though? I think Birkholtz could pull off red, but I’m thinking something cooler for Oluransi. Like green. Oh God, together they’d look like Christmas.

(Well, together they pretty much ARE Christmas. Heheheheh)

~Matt Carson

* * *

Hey all,

I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Poindexter in flannel before. He’s in my Java class and there was definitely a day of plaid, at least. I think he had a beanie on too. It was hipster as fuck. I think hanging out with Nurse has affected him. (Jeannie, if you’re here, PLEASE DON’T START ON POINDEXTER AND NURSE.)

xoxo 

Susan

* * *

YOU RANG?

Hee hee hee. Nurse in ironic flannel. Poindexter in unironic flannel. Meanwhile, Poindexter in an ironic beanie, Nurse in an unironic beanie. Fuck, I love those two. I LOVE THOSE TWO. The other day they were shouting at each other LITERALLY from across the quad. The entire place could hear their argument. (I think it was about the Harry Potter movies?) And then they just sort of came together in the middle of the quad and walked off together grinning. I don’t get them but i LOVE THEM.

From Jeannie!!!

* * *

Hey Emily,

Was the sophomore Eric Bittle? Because I keep seeing him and Zimmermann outside the humanities building. I think they have a class together there or something. Bittle’s adorable. He’s got the best features! He’s almost too pretty for flannel. But if it were like TASTEFUL flannel, then I could see it. (Is tasteful flannel even possible?) 

Speaking of flannel, I’m pretty sure Shitty wears it like every other day. When he’s not wearing weird T-shirts. Not that I keep up to date on Shitty’s wardrobe but it’s pretty swawesome.

-Rami

* * *

YES, Rami, that’s him! God, I can never remember his name. Bittle. Bittle. What’s so hard to remember about that? He played on Zimmermann’s left wing last year for a bit, didn’t he? They haven’t been in the same line so far this season tho. Wonder what’s up with that. 

–Emily

* * *

P.S. ERIC BITTLE IN FLANNEL YASSSSSS.

–Emily

* * *

You’re all missing the point, every last one of you. What is the point of flannel if you can’t wear it ON THE ICE. I want red and white flannel for new Samwell jerseys. Plaid kneepads for that new cute freshman goalie. (Am I the only one who’s noticed that goalie?)

Caitlyn F.

* * *

FLANNEL UNIFORMS 2K15. MAKE IT HAPPEN.

Cole

* * *

I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS THREAD.

And am I the only one who thinks Zimmermann and Bittle would be kind of cute together? You know what I mean?

Jen

* * *

Oh come on please don’t ruin this thread with your “shipping” crap.

Josiah D.

* * *

Pff, it’s my thread. Ship away!

–Emily

(P.S. What’s the ship name? Bimmerman? Zittle?)


	45. I thought you didn't want me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Patater for your day. The prompt was "I thought you didn't want me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I unreservedly, unashamedly ADORE this pairing. That is all. Carry on.

It’s sunrise when Kent shows up, and while Alexei hasn’t slept all night, his whole aching, exhausted body hums to life at the sight of him. He rushes downstairs to open the door and runs right out, in dressing gown and slippers, through the garden to the gate.

Kent looks horrible. He hasn’t slept either, that much Alexei can tell just from looking. And after what they said, after what Alexei himself said, he can’t blame him. They were harsh words. Harsh, but in the moment Alexei was sure Kent needed to hear them. Their relationship – strange as it is – couldn’t take the burden of Kent’s doubt and self-flagellation anymore. And Alexei didn’t want to find himself again in the role of reluctant punisher. _I am not forgiving you until you find some way to forgive self,_ he told Kent. _I am not dating–_

_Sleeping with,_ Kent broke in.

_No. Not just sleeping with. Never just sleeping with. This is what I am telling you. I am wanting something else, but I cannot have if you want only pain._

Now, it looks as though Kent has had his fill of pain, and Alexei can’t imagine what his night has been like, to leave him sallow and shaking in Alexei’s garden like this. He reaches out, tries to close his hand around Kent’s waist and guide him into the house, but Kent pushes back. He stands there, lip trembling minutely, and searches Alexei’s face for something Alexei can only hope he finds.

“Look,” Kent says. He clears his throat. “I’m fucked up – you know I’m fucked up. I can’t deny that. I can’t make it go away. If you want picket fences and–” he swallows– “and four kids and a dog, you need to look somewhere else. That’s not me. It’s never been me. I don’t do candlelight dinners or, or storybook weddings or whatever the hell you’re dreaming of. If that’s what you want, you don’t want me at all.”

Alexei’s heart drops into his ankles. He doesn’t know what to tell this man in return. He has dreams, yes, but he can’t deny this truth. Maybe Kent is right. Maybe he’s just been chasing something that doesn’t exist after all.

“But,” Kent goes on. Alexei blinks.

“But… if there’s anything… if there’s anything that’s good in my life, if there’s anything that makes me think maybe I can go on and get better and someday _have_ something – if there’s anyone that I can see a future with – it’s you.” 

His voice is frayed, rough. It scrapes against Alexei’s ears. “What you saying?” he asks.

“I’m saying–” and Kent thinks about it, as though he isn’t really sure himself. “I’m saying, if– if you can accept that I’m not gonna be really good at it all the time, that I’m gonna screw up and we might just yell at each other once in a while and sometimes I’m still gonna be that dumb asshole who needs to be picked up and thrown out –” He sighs. “If you’re still willing to do that, and if you can tell me that you’ll still be there when I get my head together– then yeah. I’m willing to try.”

He pauses. His fingers touch his lips, and his eyes widen. Alexei knows that motion. It’s what Kent did the first time they kissed, when Kent agreed to come to his place that very first night. When Alexei kissed down his neck the next morning, lazy and gentle, and Kent murmured “please.” He drew back and touched his fingers to his lips and stared at Alexei, in wonder that this piece of him existed. 

“So–” Kent shuffles a foot, for an instant a shy schoolboy. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

Alexei reaches out for him.

They kiss on the cobblestone walkway in the garden, with the sunrise casting warm orange rays over their faces. It’s a kiss completely atypical of them, one that’s beautiful and tender and full of beginnings. But maybe there will be more like this now. Maybe there’ll be another day when Kent clings to him like this, hands tight on his back, and doesn’t want to let the kiss end. Maybe, someday, they’ll even have the familiar, soft kisses of a couple in love.

“I thought,” Alexei says when they part. “I thought you not want me.”

“I thought you didn’t want _me_ ,” Kent says. His voice is still rough, his lips soft orange-red with the sunrise and the flush of a kiss. “I thought you couldn’t. I didn’t think anybody could.”

“And now?” Alexei prods. He wants to hear Kent say it.

“Now?” Ah, and there’s the beginnings of a smile. “Now I think you’re out of your mind.” He gets a frown for that. Kent laughs. “All right, all right. I get it. You– you care about me. And… for what it’s worth, I… I’m pretty sure I care about you, too. You giant Russian basset hound. Don’t give me those eyes.” He swats Alexei on the arm.

“Ow.” Alexei pouts, though it didn’t hurt a bit. “We go inside now, yes? Is late.”

“Nah,” Kent says as they walk up the garden path to the door, “it’s early.”

And it is. It’s so early yet. Anything could happen.


	46. only you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> R/H. Prompt: "I want you. Only you."

Ransom’s been learning from Bitty for a few weeks now. He’s perfected his stir-fry, he’s honed his wine-bottle-opening skills. He’s even reserved one of the student kitchens and set up a nice little card table with a nice little tablecloth he picked up from the scene shop over at the theater department. Two plates, two napkins, two forks and knives. Even a candle, though really, there’s not room on the table for both the candle _and_ dinner, so something’s gonna get moved at some point.

All that’s left now is to call Holster in.

_**me:** dude come to Roosevelt Rm 402B_

**_Holster:_ ** _wut the fine arts bldg?_

_**me:** yeah just come over here_

Ransom spends the next ten minutes pacing, and sweating, and peeking in the oven where his stir-fry’s being kept warm. When Holster opens the door, he almost jumps right out of his skin.

“Hey, bro!” Holster announces, then realizes what’s around him. Carefully, he sniffs the air, then glances at the table and chairs and flickering candle. 

Slowly, a smile slips onto his face. “Ohhhhhh. Oh, I see what’s going on here.”

Ransom tries not to flip out. “You _do_?”

“Well, sure, dude, it’s pretty obvious.” Holster strides across the room toward the table. He picks up the wine bottle, inspects it, then crosses over to the oven and peeks in, despite Ransom’s frantic attempt to check him out of the way. Ransom’s squeezing a dishtowel within an inch of its life and trying not to let his eyes bug out of his head as Holster completes his all-too-thorough inspection.

Finally, mercifully, Holster comes to a stop. Looking around slowly, he nods. “Good job, dude,” he says. “NIce. So when’s she getting here?”

“What?” Ransom blinks. “Who?”

“The chick,” Holster says. “When’s she showing up? Soon, huh? I should jet outta here….”

“Holtz. What the hell.” Ransom drops the dishtowel on a counter and comes to face him. “There’s no fucking chick.”

“What are you talking about? Of course there’s a chick, why else would you have the …” Holster gestures at the table. “the _thing,_ and the _stuff_ , and…”

“Wait, wait. Wait a second.” Ransom closes his eyes and shakes his head vigorously, like he can clear out the cobwebs that way. “Why do you think I asked you to come out here?”

Holster looks at him like he’s five shades of dumb. “Well, to inspect the setup, right? To give it the old Holtzy seal of approval before your lady gets here.” He frowns. “Wait, what do you mean there’s no chick?”

“Adam. Do me a favor. Sit down.” Ransom indicates the chair. Holster obeys, shooting him looks of confusion all the while.

Ransom heaves a sigh. Then he steps to the side of the table and pulls out his corkscrew. Beautifully, perfectly, he uncorks the wine and pours a little into the glass in front of Holster.

Holster blinks up at him. “Rans?”

Ransom waits. 

Holster just keeps blinking at him.

“This is the part where you’re supposed to sample the wine, dude,” Ransom mutters at him.

“What?” 

Jesus, Holster never was too quick on the draw, was he? Ransom sets the bottle down with a sigh. “It’s for _you,_ dude. The wine. And the meal, and the candle and the fucking tablecloth. They’re for _you.”  
_

“Ohhhhhh,” Holster says, delight painting his face. “So this is like a bros night out?”

“No, dude, no.” Ransom just barely restrains himself from facepalming. “It’s a night out. Period.”

Holster gets to his feet. The chair skids with a squeak below him.

“Rans?” he says. And there, in his face – Ransom thinks he sees the beginnings of understanding dawning. 

Good. Maybe he can say it now.

“It’s like this,” Ransom tells him. “I don’t want you to inspect my fucking cooking and my table setting skills. I don’t want your approval on the wine. And I definitely don’t want to impress some girl. I want–” He clenches a fist. “I want you, Holtz. I want you and me to sit down and have a d– a dinner date and … and I don’t know, hold hands or something. I want to see what happens if we –”

“–if we’re more than just bros,” Holster fills in. His voice is muted, soft, devoid of all its usual hard edges. “That’s what you want, Rans? Is that what you’re telling me?”

And right now Ransom could back out. He could say the whole thing’s a joke. He could laugh at Holster for being so gullible. He could claim it’s a practice dinner for a date not yet scheduled. And everything would go back to normal, and nothing would change, and –

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you.”

Holster leans to the side and breathes on his palm, then sniffs. “Shit,” he says. “Hopefully my breath isn’t fucking awful.”

“Huh?”

It’s the only syllable Ransom can get out of his mouth before he’s pulled into the biggest, warmest embrace he’s ever felt. Another instant and Holster’s mouth is on his– as enveloping and overwhelming as Ransom thought it would be, but tender, too, searching – like he’s trying to find just the right fit. Ransom lets him try, angle after angle, combination after combination of softness and pressure and warmth. They _all_ feel right to him. 

“Not bad, then?” Holster says, after he’s pulled away and run his tongue over his bottom lip, an image Ransom won’t soon forget. “The breath, I mean.”

Ransom takes in a breath through pursed lips. “N-no,” he says thinly. “Not bad.”

“Cool.” Holster grins wide and slides a hand onto Ransom’s face. His fingers, big and familiar, curl around Ransom’s jaw like they belong there. “So let’s eat.”

“Eat… right… yeah.” Ransom knows he has to move, get the food out of the oven at least, but he’s still bowled over. Something in his head is doing dizzy little spins. Holster’s hand, still firm on his jaw, is all that’s grounding him.

“And, uh, in case you didn’t get the memo,” Holster says, “I’m down with the whole more-than-friends thing. You know. If you still want me and not some chick from the volleyball team.”

“I want you,” Ransom blurts out. At the light in Holster’s eyes, he finds the strength to say it again. “I want you. Only you.”


	47. nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first foray into Tango/Whiskey. Prompt was "can I touch you?"

Tango’s curious. Tango’s so curious he might as well be named George instead of Tony. Doesn’t bother Whiskey much, but nothing bothers Whiskey much. He’s just not the type to get bothered. He doesn’t see why everyone else has to get so excited about shit. Life is the way it is, that’s Whiskey’s point of view and always has been. You take it and you deal with it.

And he deals with Tango. What’s the alternative, really? Bitch at him for all his questions? What good will that do? It’ll just upset Tango, and then he’ll have an upset Tango to deal with. Nah, it’s better to just indulge him. Let him be himself. Honestly, Whiskey secretly finds it kind of satisfying to hang out with Tango. Everything excites him, and it’s fun to watch. In a way, letting Tango get excited about things is the closest Whiskey can come to getting excited himself.

Today Tango’s in his dorm room. He asked if he could come, and Whiskey shrugged, because sure, hanging out with Tango is usually better than not hanging out with him, he guesses. Maybe it’ll even help. Lately Whiskey’s room has felt a bit like a prison. He’s not happy in the confines of small rooms in general, and this one feels particularly small, particularly confining. Sometimes he think he’ll itch to death if he stays there one more minute.

But maybe Tango will bring some… color to it, for lack of a better word. Some dimension. Just walking beside him, Whiskey feels something akin to encouragement. Being with Tango, he can breathe that much easier. 

And yeah, having Tango in his room is kind of nice. Tango’s looking at everything. The books on his shelf, the Post-Its by his computer. He keeps muttering “Ah!” and “Cool!” as he flits around like a giant moth, filling Whiskey’s space, bringing the air to life. Whiskey sits on the bed, textbook in hand, trying to pretend he’s not tracking Tango’s every movement.

“Can I see this?” Tango asks, pointing at a paperweight on Whiskey’s desk.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, go ahead.”

A minute later: “Can I look in your drawers?”

Nothing in there but pencils, but whatever. “Go for it.”

Tango peeks until he’s satisfied. “Can I see what music’s on your iTunes?” he asks next.

Whiskey frowns at him. “Dude. Just do whatever you want. You don’t have to ask me.”

“Oh.” Tango tries this, but he’s very bad at it. He keeps looking toward Whiskey, as though for permission. Whiskey gives him patient little nods as Tango peeks into the bathroom, stares at the photos on his roommate’s wall, peers out the window at the courtyard below.

After a while he tires of it, and returns to Whiskey’s side. “Can I sit on your bed?”

“I told you, do whatever you want,” Whiskey returns, a bit irritably.

“Thanks!” Tango says, and climbs up to sit shoulder to shoulder with him. Which is fine, but then he proceeds to pretty obviously read over Whiskey’s shoulder, and that part gets annoying. Whiskey closes his textbook with a sigh.

“Sorry!” Tango sings out. It’s pretty obvious from his face he knows he’s done something wrong.

Whiskey sighs. “Nah,” he says, “I was pretty much done reading anyway.” He lays the book aside. After a moment, Tango reaches for it, looks through it for a few minutes, and then puts it back.

“Um,” Tango says.

“Um?” Whiskey glances at him.

“Um.” Tango’s face is a little red. “I wanna do one more thing, but I wanna ask first.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes. “I told you, do whatever you want.”

“No, I gotta ask,” Tango insists.

“Whatever. Fine. Ask.”

Tango nods, and gazes at Whiskey with big, determined eyes for a minute before opening his mouth again. “Can I touch you?”

Whiskey almost chokes on air. “Can you _what_?” he manages after a moment of sputtering.

“Touch you.” Tango bites his lip. “Just. Kind of. A little.”

It’s damn hard to wrap his brain around this request, but Whiskey tries. “Touch me _where_?”

Tango’s gaze darts from his face on downward. “I don’t know. Like, hold your hand?”

“Hold my hand,” Whiskey says flatly.

“Y– yeah.” Now Tango looks seriously nervous, and if there’s anything Whiskey doesn’t like, it’s riling up people around him. Excited Tango is one thing, but anxious Tango just makes him want to run for the hills.

He takes a deep breath and searches carefully for words. “Okay,” he says slowly, “ _why_ do you want to hold my hand?”

A flush rises to Tango’s cheeks. “Because… I like you?”

Is that a statement or a question? “You like me,” Whiskey repeats.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Tango fidgets. “I don’t really know.”

Well, all this is clear as mud. “You like me and you don’t know why..”

Tango frowns. Whiskey knows that frown. It means a torrent of words is coming his way. He braces himself.

“Look,” Tango says, “I don’t know a lot of things, okay? Like, I know that I ask a lot of questions. I know that I don’t know things. But I do know some things, okay? I know that we hang out a lot, and you let me come into your room and touch your stuff and don’t yell at me. And that pretty much makes you the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

Whiskey snorts. “I’m not nice.”

“You are to me.” And Tango’s leaning forward and looking him full in the face now, the kind of look even Whiskey can’t turn away from. Damn it, this was the danger of letting Tango into his room in the first place. Whiskey feels vicariously through him, through his fascination with all things that Whiskey himself finds so blase and normal. And normally that’s a good thing. But he doesn’t know how to deal with all that fascination poured in his direction. It creates a weird feedback loop, and makes Whiskey feel strange about himself, and…

…and, shit, now he wants to know how it’d feel. How Tango’s hand would feel in his.

Whiskey’s not used to _wanting_ things. He’s no good at it.

He averts his eyes. “Sure, “ he says, keeping his voice carefully low. “Sure, you can hold my hand. Whatever.”

“Really?” He doesn’t have to look to know the grin that’s spread across Tango’s face.

“Yeah.”  He turns his palm upward, the closest he can come to an invitation.

Tango’s hand slips into his. It’s warm, and his fingers are long as they wrap around Whiskey’s. Tango makes a soft noise of happiness and settles back against the wall.

Okay. This is… okay. Tango touching him. Tango next to him, buzzing with his… Tango-ness, their hands curled together. It’s… it’s… Whiskey supposes the best word for it is _nice._

It’s nice, holding Tango’s hand.

And maybe, though he does his best not to feel anything toward anyone… maybe for just a moment he can almost admit that he kind of _likes_ Tango, too.

Damned if he’ll say a word about it, though. 


	48. stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was prompted to write Kent/Swoops. I had never given Swoops a half a thought in my life before that prompt.  
> So I created a character out of thin air. Sorry his name isn't Jeff ;)

It’s weird, the way it happens. There’s no dramatic moment, there’s no climactic first kiss as the music swells. It’s Kent and Jason, after practice, hanging out in the locker room. And after the locker room Jason says, “Let’s get lunch.” And so they get lunch. And after lunch, Kent says, “Come back to my place.” So Jason does.

And seven beers and five hours later, Jason puts his arms around Kent and says, “You ever think about this? Us?”

Kent nods. And now Jason’s arms are around him again, only from behind. They’re in boxers and looking out the window at a morning sky. And Kent’s struggling, a knot of nerves inside his chest that he doesn’t know how to dislodge. He swore he’d never do this again. Feel this again. He swore he wouldn’t let that connection on the ice take him under. And yet here he is. Here _they_ are.

“How long have we been moving in this direction?” Jason murmurs, laying a kiss on his shoulder. “Gotta tell you, Parse, I’ve wanted this for so long. I thought you’d never– _heh.”_ He shakes his head. “Got you here now. Gotta focus on that.”

“I– yeah.” Kent doesn’t know what to say. “Yeah, here I am.”

“Sound a little happy about it,” Jason says with a laugh. “Jeez, Parse, I didn’t hold a gun to your head last night. Though if you’re into that…”

“Heh. Maybe… maybe next time.”  It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“So there’s gonna be a next time? That’s good news.” Kent goes rigid. Jason notices. “Kent, you’re tense. I’m not holding a gun to your head now, either, you know. You want me to to go?” He draws back, giving Kent an opening.

Kent misses the warmth. He reaches out, grabs Jason’s arm and pulls him close again. “No,” he says. “No. I just… I didn’t expect…” He sighs. “I’m not good at this, Swoops. I might screw this up.”

“I might, too,” Jason says. “That’s sort of how these things go. Look. I’m not asking you for anything, dude. If you just wanna hook up once in a while, no questions asked – I’m good for it.”

“Is that what you want?” Kent asks, and he realizes he’s hanging on the answer. “To hook up?”

“Parse. Geez.” Jason leans against him, face against his face, and the rush of warmth at his cheek makes Kent think of times long past, dreams that he thought were dead forever. “I want you, okay? I want _this._ Whatever it is.”

“I can’t… I can’t make any promises.” Kent’s voice is hoarse. “I’m fucked up, Jason. There was… I’ve done this before and it didn’t go well.”

“Don’t promise me anything, then,” Jason tells him. “Just know that I’m here.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Kent says. “Fuck, you shouldn’t be. If you knew–”

Jason squeezes his arm, pulls him around so they stand face to face. “Look at me, Parse. Kent. Look at me.” Kent doesn’t want to. He stares at his stocking feet. Peers out the window. It takes Jason’s hand on his face to force him to look. Shit, Jason’s eyes are dark. They’re nothing like Zimms’ eyes, Kent thinks with a start. In Zimms’ eyes, Kent could always see himself reflected. Jason’s eyes are black holes, and they show nothing but their own depths.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Jason says softly. “Whoever he was. He did a number on you, Parse, I get that. I see that. It’s cool, it’s okay.”

“How the hell is that okay?”  Kent sighs. “Jayce. Don’t you get it? I’m not over him. I might never be over him. We could fuck every night from here to the Finals and if he showed up on my door the next day I’d be fucking gone.”

“No, no, man.” Jason’s hand is still on his cheek, warm and full of forgiveness Kent’s sure he doesn’t deserve. “If he showed up today, you’d be gone. I get that. But people change, man. Even you change. I’m not gonna replace this guy, I never will. But we–”

“Shit,” Kent says, closing his eyes. It’s one thing being with another guy. But having the other guy _talking_ about the fact that he’s the other guy… Kent’s never let the reality of things catch up with him this much. Here, with Jason’s arm around him and Jason’s kind eyes taking him apart, he feels like something’s starting that can’t be stopped. And he’s scared of it.

“Look at me, Parse.” Kent obeys. Fuck, he doesn’t know what to do with that gaze. “We got something, you and me. I don’t know what it is yet, but… I wanna find out. Don’t you?”

Kent stares at him haplessly. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Do you want me to stay?” Jason asks. He drops his hands to Kent’s. Clasps them, an entreaty. “Never mind next time, never mind next week or next month or whenever…. Right now. Do you want me here?”

Kent trembles. He’s on the verge of something, and it’s big and scary and he doesn’t know how it’s going to end up. But if anything is grounding him right now, it’s Jason’s gaze, Jason’s even voice and warm hands. He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Stay.”

Jason leans in and kisses him, soft and sound. “Okay, man. I’ll stay.”


	49. simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first go at Snowy/Tater.

Snowy can’t stand Tater.

Snowy’s got ideas, man. Ideas and concepts and notions that all are begging to be expressed at any one moment.  He can’t look at a thing without seeing a thousand facets of it. He looks at an issue, or a person, and immediately sees them, like an insect, through a million eyes at once. Take Jack Zimmermann, for instance. The minute Snowy laid eyes on Jack, he saw the father’s-son aspect. He saw the tenuous hold on calm. He saw the genuine love for the game, and he saw the weight of expectations. You could go at Jack from any number of angles. People are complex.

Except Tater. Tater is too fucking simple.

There’s nothing to see there. There’s no subtlety, no nuance. Tater’s just a giant friendly dude who talks too much and cares too much about everything. He’s a big head with a big smile or a big scowl, and long arms and big thighs. Snowy doesn’t look at Tater and see a painful past, or an uncertain future. He doesn’t see insecurities or fears. He just sees Tater, exactly what he is, exactly how he feels at any given moment. He’s so simple, Snowy’s almost insulted by his existence.

He is, however, willing to give Tater this: Tater is consistent. If you are in a mood where you’re feeling isolated or like an outcast (and Snowy gets in those moods pretty often), Tater’s there to give you a big smile and a big hug until you’re sure at least one guy around here cares about you. If you’re taking a lot of abuse during a game, you can count on Tater to be there ready to throw down with your attacker. And if you’re in the mood to party, there’s no one better to party with. Tater is the ultimate drink refiller, karaoke companion and wingman. Snowy can at least appreciate that.

He can appreciate, too, how occasionally Tater does learn to shut up. His curiosity is indefatigable, but once you’re talking to him, he actually clams up and listens. Snowy discovers this after a tough loss in which they actually pulled him from the game. Tater sought him out afterward. Sat with him in the players’ lounge for like an hour afterward, just listening as Snowy replayed the shots he missed, moment to moment. And when Snowy admitted to feeling like a failure, Tater knew enough to tell him, nobody on this team is thinking you’re failure. Everybody having bad nights. You’re good, Snowy’s so good. I’m telling everyone this. Snowy’s so good.

Snowy didn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until Tater said it.

And on a day late in the season when Snowy’s got a migraine, when he feels like the accumulated stresses and discomforts of an entire team are weighing him down, it’s actually a comfort to have Tater join him in the hallway out back of the arena. Tater sits with him quietly while he rubs his temples and waits for the medicine to kick in. He runs a hand down Snowy’s back and says not a word until Snowy’s feeling ready to talk. Snowy’s amazed to find that Tater’s simplicity is actually calming. With all the brainpower it takes him to process the rest of this team, having a guy like a Fisher-Price toy – simple and oversized, done up in primary colors to be as welcoming and friendly as possible – is a relieving rest for his mind.

Snowy starts seeking him out. They go for coffee in the mornings, have long walks along the river and afternoons in the park where Tater checks his phone and Snowy reads. Tater starts waiting outside the trainer’s room when Snowy’s having his massages. He hands Snowy a bottle of water and walks him out to his car, just in case he gets a cramp on the way there.

After the season is over and they’ve been eliminated from the playoffs, Marty hosts a barbeque at his ridiculously huge house. Kids are running all over the lawn and splashing in the pool, and Snowy’s a little sensitive to the noise. He hangs out on the very edge of the property, a fat oak tree hiding him from the chaos. When Tater tracks him down and sits next to him, beer in hand, Snowy’s not even surprised, much less annoyed.

“You’re having plans for the summer?” Tater asks.

“Just a reading list,” Snowy says. “I keep meaning to get through all the National Book Award contenders before training camps start.”

“Come over with your books.”

Snowy’s eyebrows lift. “What, to your place?”

“Yeah. It’s lonely place in summer.”

“I figured you were going back to Russia to visit family.”

Tater frowns. “Family is complicated. I’m liking to relax on vacation. But still gets lonely.”

And isn’t that a surprise – the whole team assumes the players who hail from other countries go back home in the summers, Tater included. Snowy’s got a million questions on the tip of his tongue. He swallows them down. “I’m sure all the guys would want to come over anytime. You should invite them.”

“I’m inviting you,” Tater says, a little bit of a stubborn push to his words.

“Yeah, I got that part.” Snowy gives a soft little laugh. “Thanks, man.”

“You’re coming then?”

Snowy looks up into those giant, plaintive eyes and has to bite down a smile. “Yeah, of course.” He kicks at the grass absently. “I gotta thank you, Tater. You’ve been a good friend to me this season.”

“I’m trying,” Tater says, and there’s a softness to his voice. “I’m trying to not being pain in your ass. Know I’m not so smart, but maybe that’s okay sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Out of a strange, uncomplicated impulse, Snowy lifts his hand and lays it down on Tater’s. “Maybe it’s okay.”

Near the pool, someone’s kid shrieks. A swell of masculine laughter rises up from near the grill. Snowy watches it all from a distance, feeling strangely removed without being isolated. Tater’s right here, keeping him company, and tacitly letting him know it’s okay to be this way. Snowy wonders whether Tater has any idea how much that means. He wonders when it was that Tater’s friendship started to mean the world to him.

He does know that he’s completely misjudged Tater. He’s not nearly as simple as Snowy made him out to be. Anyone who could be in the thick of the party and chooses to come out here instead is making an unusual choice. Snowy doesn’t know why he’s doing it. And he doesn’t know why Tater’s been so good to him over the past few months, sometimes going well out of his way. He’s dying to find out. Tater’s not simple; he’s goddamned mysterious. And Snowy’s going to have a good time this summer trying to figure out what’s behind it all.

When, on another summer evening, Tater pulls him close and kisses him, it goes a long way toward clearing up all that mystery. But by then, Snowy doesn’t mind understanding Tater easily, so long as he doesn’t go anywhere.


	50. deets exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " Lardo and Jack had their own deets exchange right there at brunch. They’ve got a deets thread going on via text that Holster would drool over."
> 
> \-- Ngozi, in the blog for 3x12: Bitty & I

**Jack:** so.  
 **Lardo:** yeah. cool.  
 **Jack:** it was at graduation.  
 **Lardo:** yeah?  
 **Jack:** yeah. ran back to the haus.  
 **Lardo:** course you did.  
 **Jack:** Bittle was there.  
 **Jack:** I kissed him.  
 **Lardo:** nice.  
 **Jack:** you and Shits?  
 **Lardo:** first weekend i went up to Harvard.  
 **Lardo:** staying in Shitty’s room. Not a lot of room.  
 **Lardo:** Cuddling happened.  
 **Jack:** haha  
 **Jack:** but that’s normal eh? cuddling.  
 **Lardo:** This wasn’t normal.  
 **Lardo:** We were. Um.  
 **Lardo:** It was active cuddling.

**Jack:** Oh.  
 **Jack:** Active.  
 **Lardo:** You know what I mean.   
**Jack:** Kinda.  
 **Jack:** There was some active cuddling in Georgia.  
 **Jack:** We were watching fireworks.  
 **Lardo:** Until you weren’t.  
 **Jack:** haha, yeah.  
 **Lardo:** Nice.  
 **Lardo:** Like, Shitty and I kissed before? So it wasn’t a big deal.  
 **Jack:** Really? When?  
 **Lardo:** Oh, you know. After kegsters.  
 **Jack:** So first sober kiss?  
 **Lardo:** Yeah maybe. The cuddling was a bigger deal.  
 **Lardo:** Shits said to me, I had no idea how goddamn fucking much I was gonna miss you.  
 **Jack:** He’s a liar.  
 **Jack:** He knew he was gonna miss you.  
 **Lardo:** IDK. He was pretty sincere.  
 **Lardo:** I started crying.  
 **Lardo:** Forget it. Never mind.  
 **Lardo:** Tell me about you and Bits in Georgia.  
 **Jack:** Um, yeah. It was good.  
 **Lardo:** What was good?  
 **Jack:** Haha. We were in the back of his dad’s pickup.  
 **Lardo:** Dude. Nice.  
 **Jack:** and then… the back of his mom’s car.  
 **Lardo:** Damn.  
 **Jack:** …and then the guest room bed.  
 **Lardo:** Fuck.  
 **Jack:** I… missed him a lot.  
 **Lardo:** No, it’s cool.   
**Lardo:** I’m just impressed.  
 **Jack:** Did you and Shits?  
 **Lardo:** Oh, yeah. Of course.  
 **Lardo:** Shitty’s ….  
 **Jack:** Shitty’s what?  
 **Lardo:** …good?  
 **Jack:** Oh. Haha. Good.  
 **Jack:** Are you two official?  
 **Lardo:** Pff I don’t even know what that means.  
 **Lardo:** I don’t think it matters? We’re just… doing stuff we didn’t do before.  
 **Lardo:** That’s all.  
 **Jack:** OK, fair enough.  
 **Lardo:** But you and Bits are as official as it gets.  
 **Jack:** Yeah.  
 **Jack:** I gave him my toy and asked him to be my boyfriend.  
 **Lardo:** what?  
 **Lardo:** TOY?  
 **Jack:** You know. the little figure they made.  
 **Lardo:** oh pffff I thought you meant something else.  
 **Jack:** What?  
 **Lardo:** Nothing. Never mind.  
 **Jack:** …okay.  
 **Lardo:** Cool.  
 **Jack:** are you happy?  
 **Lardo:** huh?  
 **Jack:** It’s just, I’m so happy.  
 **Jack:** I’m so happy I don’t know if that’s weird.  
 **Jack:** or normal.  
 **Lardo:** You’re in love, of course it’s normal.  
 **Jack:** Yeah. Good.  
 **Jack:** I am.   
**Jack:** In love, I mean.  
 **Lardo:** yeah it’s pretty obvs.  
 **Jack:** are you?  
 **Lardo:** IDK, probably? I mean, it’s Shitty.  
 **Lardo:** Obviously I love him.  
 **Lardo:** But it’s not like violins and fireworks, you know?  
 **Lardo:** Well. Sometimes it is.  
 **Lardo:** Most of the time it’s just like… quiet. And nice.  
 **Jack:** That’s what it’s like with Bittle.  
 **Jack:** Well, not quiet. Because it’s Bittle.  
 **Jack:** But nice.  
 **Lardo:** Like, really, really nice, right?  
 **Jack:** Yeah. Like this is where I’m supposed to be.  
 **Lardo:** Then I guess maybe I am in love.  
 **Lardo:** Weird to say it, though.  
 **Jack:** but you’re happy?  
 **Lardo:** Oh, yeah. Hella happy.  
 **Jack:** That’s what matters.


End file.
